


Reasons for Living

by SharpenTheSoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x04 was crap, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, How Do I Tag, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Love Confessions, Post 8x3, Post-Battle, Smut, aka not a doormat, trying to make jon more like the book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-02-26 11:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 74,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpenTheSoul/pseuds/SharpenTheSoul
Summary: It's over.Jon could do nothing but exhale sharply as the rotted form of Viserion fell at his feet. All around him, the roars and shrieks of the endless tide of dead fell silent with the death of their leader. The greatest threat the world had – or would ever see – was ended once and for all.Collapsing to one knee, Jon coughed violently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Jonsa story on this account. I have shipped this since 2016 however. Just haven't really written much in the way of fics about the pair. Thought I would do so after 8x03(which was a shitty episode but nevermind)! hope you enjoy!

_It's over._

Jon could do nothing but exhale sharply as the rotted form of Viserion fell at his feet. All around him, the roars and shrieks of the endless tide of dead fell silent with the death of their leader. The greatest threat the world had – or would ever see – was ended once and for all.

Collapsing to one knee, Jon coughed violently. His body rebelled against him now; an endless wave of pain took hold of every muscle. He vomited up the last of his lunch as the putrid stench wafted over Winterfell – the smell of piles of bodies, of blood, sweat, and gore – washing away any gasps of clean air.

Even as his body shot with pain, Jon forced himself to his feet, looking around frantically. _The crypts,_ he realized with horror. _How stupid were we, Snow?_

He did not know how, but soon he was in front of the great doors leading into the tombs of the ancient Stark kings, using the last of his energy to clear away the pile of bodies that lay in front of it, the doors hacked almost to pieces from their blades. _Sansa's in there,_ he cursed, _you stupid stupid fool._

Everything he had done – from reclaiming Winterfell to going south on the demand of a Targaryen claimant – was for her. For the longest time he had thought they were the last two remaining Starks – you're not a Stark, fool boy – and in this moment now he felt the same way again.

_Please don't be hurt because of my stupidity._

“SANSA!” he cried, hauling another corpse away. His arms grew numb and stiff, yet he still thrashed wildly to open the door. “SANSA! Can you hear me?!”

At last, the pathway was cleared enough of corpses for him to be face to face with the doors. He pounded against them with his shoulder, his arms too weak to even raise into a fist. “The battle is over, Sansa! The dead are defeated.” _Somehow. I did not even strike down the Night King._ This remained unsaid; a larger mystery to solve. _Perhaps Daenerys had done it, or Bran._

Finally after what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open slightly. Jon waited to see red hair but found himself face to face – rather, face to waist – with Tyrion. “Sansa,” Jon croaked, “is she...alright?” _Fool boy, simpering arrogant toad!_

A tired yet amused smirk crossed the Lannister's face. “I'm fine, thank you for asking. But yes, she is.” It faded almost as soon as it had appeared, “though the dead...well, we did lose some, I'm afraid.”

* * *

Pushing his way into the crypt Jon searched the frightened faces amidst the bodies of the dead – long-buried Stark kings brought to service by the Night King and the few who had been their victims – until he found her, comforting some of the women and children. _The perfect Lady of Winterfell, naturally. She cares for her people, thinking of them unlike you, fool boy._

“Sansa...” Jon whispered as she turned to him, launching herself into his arms.

_She will be your downfall! You are a dragon. Act like it!_

_Everytime a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin._

The voice in his head – a manifestation of his doubts and realizations about his hertiage, perhaps – he bid silence as he sobbed into her arms, the soothing and warm touch of her skin contrasting to the tight, tired and gore-stained of his own.

“I knew we would triumph,” she whispered, uncaring of his filthy and haggard appearance. “we all had faith in you, Jon.”

“It wasn't me.” he admitted.

Sansa merely shrugged. “I don't care. I just...I just care you are safe.”

_You won't get another chance at this, boy. Embrace who you are!_

* * *

The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. Low enough for only her to hear, yet they still brought a twinge to his heart. “I love you.”

Sansa laughed softly, refusing to let go of their embrace. Even after the horrors endured down here, she did her best to remain in good spirits. “And I you, of course -”

It was then he told her about his parentage. About the secret carried by their father – his eyes gazed toward Eddard Stark's statue, thankful that he did not see the rotted body among the now collapsed corpses around them – and about the dragon burning within.

By this time, Tyrion and Missandei had lead most of the survivors out of the crypts.

“Jon, that is...” she looked at him, his grip on her tightening reflexively, “I don't really know what to say.”

Jon nodded. “I'm only saying this because I love you, Sansa. Not as a brother would a sister...perhaps I am truly cursed...but as a man does a woman. I have since we came back together. I know it is wrong, but up there, when the dead were all around me and I thought myself dead again and again – it was you who kept me going. During the battle against Ramsay and his men, you kept me going. Even when I went beyond the Wall in that stupid wight-gathering mission, it was you.

I knew I...I had to tell you this. I should have told you before the battle, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. You are my reason for living, for truly living.”

Sansa did her best to keep composed as she pressed her forehead against his own. Her smell – the lemon-scent that he'd procured from the winter town – overpowered his stench. They said nothing a moment, the words sinking in.

Her hands gripped the sides of his face and she kissed him, pushing her body into his own.

For that moment, time stopped for them both.

“...you are my reason for living, Jon Snow.” she finally said, “perhaps we can now be each other's reasons.”

Near the entrance to the crypts, Tyrion cleared his throat, watching the pair pull apart with an amused smirk. “Don't worry, I heard the whole thing.” he admitted, drinking down another skin of wine.

* * *

Jon looked to Tyrion with a mixture of fear and anger. “What now?” he asked as his hands pulled Sansa against him, making a silent vow of protection.

Shrugging, the dwarf belched softly. “I thought you would want to know that your brother and sister are fine. It seemed that Lady Arya was the one to strike the killing blow on the Night King.”

 _I knew she would,_ Jon told himself – and the dragon within, now oddly silent since his revelation to Sansa.

“She has always been strong.” Sansa whispered, keeping her eyes on Tyrion.

“As for what you've said about who you are, Jon Snow...well, let's worry about that another time. For now, we should celebrate. We are alive after all. And I like living.” he finished, raising his wine skin to the pair.

Jon couldn't help but laugh as he kissed her once again, causing Tyrion to roll his eyes, smirking at them. “I'd say get a room, but there isn't much space left for that at the moment.”

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after the shit-show that was 8x04 I had to expand this chapter to do the characters justice. more will come!

Jon looked at the body of Theon Greyjoy upon the pyre as Sansa lay the Stark pendant she carried onto his chest. Her sobs wracked at his heart as he kept a hand wrapped around her shoulder, offering comfort when she was ready.

Despite everything that the ironman had done to their home, to their family and to them – directly or indirectly – he had been the one to save her from further abuse and degradation at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, risking his life time and time again to get her to Castle Black safely.

_You don't need to choose,_ he remembered telling Theon on Dragonstone. _You're a Greyjoy...and you're a Stark._

He'd died a hero, standing with Bran in the godswood until the last. Now, more then ever Jon knew that the world would never see the like of such a man again. Gently he placed a hand upon Theon's head. His skin was cold and clammy, his hair stiff and brittle.

“What is dead may never die,” he whispered as the words of the Iron Islands came to mind. “but rises again, harder and stronger.”

Sansa looked to him as she nodded, wiping at her eyes. Taking her by the arm, he walked them back to where they stood at the head of the procession, with all of the survivors of the great battle. So many had fallen – the hundreds of pyres evident of that – and what was left were tired, cold and still traumatized from their experiences.

The pair stood next to Ghost, who himself was wounded. Jon felt the wounds on his wolf as though they were on his own body – such was the bond between the pair. A great bloody scratch lined his right flank and part of his ear had been cut off. Still, the wolf looked to his master who offered him a gentle scratching on the top of his head.

“It's time,” Sansa whispered, urging him forward. “give them the rest they deserve.”

Jon squeezed her hand for support and took a few steps forward, taking the torch offered to him by one of his men. Exhaling sharply, he paused for the briefest of moments before he began speaking. His voice was tinged with grief, despite his best efforts – as he knew so, so many had given their lives for the world; the entire world, not just the North to live.

“Today, we say goodbye to our brothers and sisters. To our fathers, and mothers. To our friends – our fellow men and women who set aside their differences to fight together...and die, together so that others might live.

Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid. It is our duty and our honour to keep them alive in memory. For those who come after us – and those who come after them, for as long as men draw breath.

They were the shields that guarded the realms of men – and we shall never see their like again.”

Jon waited as the torches were passed around – one to Sansa, to Arya, Sam, Daenerys, Grey Worm and Missandei.

As they all stepped forward to light their respective pyres, he rested his gaze on the body of Dolorus Edd – a man he'd known since he swore his first vows at Castle Black, something that seemed a lifetime ago now.

_Your watch is ended, my friend._

 

* * *

“Vomiting is not celebrating.” Jon laughed, pushing the drinking horn away. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Sansa laughing and grinning up at him with her perfect blue eyes. _Sapphires in human form,_ he had thought of them when younger. Now, he saw just how prophetic that was.

Tormund scoffed. “Yes it is.”

Folding her hands on the table, Sansa snickered, “Go on. I have faith in you!” she teased.

The celebration was well and truly underway now, he mused as he took a seat in his chair. All around the hall, the sounds of laughing, cheering and drinking was all that could be heard. The energy of Winterfell had changed, too; gone was the overpowering sense of oppression and dread Jon had once felt – the dread of knowing what was coming for them all.

_We survived,_ he smiled. It had cost them dearly but they had won.

Turning to Daenerys, he offered her a smile and raised his glass. “Drink up, Your Grace!” he encouraged, “we've defeated the dead. I think we all deserve a night of rest and merriment.”

For her part, the Queen drank deep of her own cup, retching slightly as she finished the last of her ale. “I don't know how you drink this swill,” she gasped, coughing loudly. “it tastes like...well, something you'd scoop out of a privy.”

“You get used to it!” Jon laughed, turning back to Sansa. As much as he respected Daenerys – and respect her he did; she had come to the end of the world to fight a war that cost her a large portion of her army – this was his home; Sansa was his heart.

Silently taking a pull from his cup, Jon rested his free hand in hers. It may have been the ale – or it may have been his own feelings – but even the feel of her hand in his made his skin prickle.

“Walk with me?” she whispered, rising from her seat. Jon nodded, putting his cup down. He followed as she left the hall; close but not too close; there was no need to arouse suspicion.

* * *

 

Once they were clear of the hall, the sounds of drinking, music and laughter began to die down as the night air came alive. Catching up to her, the pair walked in silence for a short while, Jon keeping his hand in hers, circling his thumb in her palm.

She lead them to a small balcony overlooking the glass gardens; the greenery had been damaged during the battle, but work was already underway to replant all that was lost. The night sky shone bright despite the cold, and the only sounds audible was that of torchlight crackling around them.

“Are you feeling alright?” Jon asked as she rested her head on his shoulder.

Sansa nodded. “Worried. Afraid. Upset. But...overall happy, yes.”

Jon knew she had a right to feel all of those things. Even with the dead destroyed, the future was uncertain; the matter of the war in the south was still at the fore front, and Daenerys would likely demand they begin their march within the next day.

“It's nice to be able to forget, every once and a while.” he sighed, slipping a hand around her waist, “especially with those you love.”

* * *

Placing a kiss on his cheek, Sansa caressed his hand gently. “I worry about us, Jon.” she admitted, “the truth of your self...if it ever gets beyond these walls, it could cause chaos not just for the North but for the entirety of Westeros.”

Looking at her, he sighed. “You have the right of it, aye – but I have no plans nor desires to let word spread. The only other person I want to tell is Arya.” He thought of his sister; the one who always was with him, thick as thieves as children – now a fabled fighter and slayer of death itself. It brought a tear to his eye.

_Stick 'em with the pointy end._

“She has called a war council for tomorrow.” he continued, “and I want you there, at my side.”

Sansa nodded. “She will likely want us to begin an attack on the south as soon as possible. But our people – even her own forces, limited as they are – need to rest. Pushing them into war too fast would be a mistake, and would only benefit Cersei.”

“Aye.” Jon agreed as she draped a hand over his chest, “if you bring this up tomorrow, I will support you as ever.”

Her ability to think so far ahead was something Jon admired greatly. He tried, by the old gods did he try – but Sansa's skill at being able to see future problems before they were even a thought in the minds of others was part of what made her a great leader.

_She is a Queen I would follow,_ he mused wistfully.

“Stay with me tonight, Jon.” she whispered, “no more talk of war councils or plans. Just us.”

* * *

 

Gently spinning her around to face him fully Jon kissed her, their bodies pressing against one another in the heat of passion and love that stewed within. “I am going nowhere, sweet girl.” he added once they broke for air.

“Good -” Sansa teased, “-because I would hate to have to order you to stay.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strategy and stuff is discussed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have I mentioned I hate 8x04? D&D have done Jon, the Starks and pretty much everyone dirty this season. here's another attempt to fix it, at least in my view.

“We will rip her out, root and stem.” Daenerys said, her eyes fixated upon the map before them. The surviving commanders of her armies and the North had come together to begin preparations for what she called “The Last War” against Cersei and the forces of Euron Greyjoy.

Jon watched the markers on the map with interest. His mind was already thinking of possibilities, of strategies. Cersei had the advantage in terms of numbers, now – it was abundantly clear. With the reinforcements from the mercenaries of the Golden Company coupled with her raising of fresh levies from the untouched Westerlands, taking the Iron Throne would be a problem for her.

“The objective here is to remove Cersei without destroying King's Landing.” Tyrion reminded her from his place at the map.

Beside him, Sansa's gaze was fixed on Daenerys as he studied her. She'd learned how to play the game from better players then the Targaryens, and she would use her knowledge to the advantage of Winterfell and the Starks.

Varys nodded, his face remaining stoic and neutral. “Thankfully, she is losing allies by the day. Yara Greyjoy has retaken the Iron Islands in her Queen's name. The new Prince of Dorne pledges his support.”

That was an interesting turn of events. Dorne was situated in the far south of Westeros. _Such a location would make for a good landing_ , he reasoned.

“It doesn't matter how many lords turn against her,” Daenerys snapped, her face flushing slightly with anger. “So long as she sits the Iron Throne, she can call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We need the capital.”

It still confused Jon as to what Daenerys's drive and obsession for the Iron Throne itself was for. She could control the entirety of the land, yet all that matters is that chair. A proper path would be to win support from across Westeros – something that can easily be done given how much Cersei and her ilk are despised across the country.

Looking to Sansa, he watched as she shook her head.“The men we have left are exhausted. Many of them are wounded. They'll fight better if they have time to rest and recuperate.” Her hands remained fixed behind her back as she spoke with her usual commanding tone.

Jon knew she was right. He himself felt the exhaustion deep within his bones – even after he'd seen to Ghost, mending his wounds as best as he could, the feelings would not leave him. _A fresh army is more valuable then a tired one_ , his lord father had once said.

Readying himself to speak in concurrence, he stopped as he saw the flash of anger appear in Daenerys's eyes. “How long do you suggest?” she all but spat, her tone growing increasingly hostile.

Not reacting to the hostility, Sansa shrugged. “I can't say for certain. Not without speaking to the officers.”

“I came North to fight alongside you,” Daenerys seethed. “at great cost to my armies and myself. Now that the time has come to reciprocate, you want to postpone.” Jon flinched at the hatred he heard in the Queen's voice.

* * *

Sansa had to stop herself from laughing at the absurdity of the comment. “It's not just our people, it's yours!” she explained, “you want to throw them into a war they're not ready to fight?”

He had to act before any more escalation happened _. I won't see her threaten Sansa, not in our home._

No matter how he had once felt about her – the love that was once there between them – that time had passed. “I agree with Sansa,” he said cautiously, looking around the room. “No matter the numbers on hand, if we allow both our forces to rest for even a week, two weeks – it will make all the difference.”

Stepping away from his place at Sansa's side, he walked over to the southern part of the map where King's Landing sat and gripped the markers denoting the Lannister forces. “Cersei has the numbers right now. She has the strength by sea, even with two dragons at our backs.” he reasoned, his mind putting the pieces together as best he could. “If we rush ourselves into war now, we lose any chance of holding an advantage.”

Daenerys looked at him, still scowling. “If we rest, we give her time to grow her armies.” she protested.

“Not necessarily.” Jon insisted. “Cersei's hated by the majority of the Seven Kingdoms. The only real strength she has to draw on is the Westerlands – and that strength cannot and will not last forever.”

Tyrion looked to Jon with approval. “He's right, Your Grace.” he said with a nod. “My sister – flawless and perfect as she is – thinks that her reserves will last forever. They won't. What Lord Snow proposes is that we isolate her to King's Landing and -only- King's Landing. If we do that, she will have no choice but to capitulate.”

“Where do you propose we start?” Varys questioned, eyeing Jon.

“Dorne.” he replied, pushing his hand onto the region. “It has declared for House Targaryen, and we would be foolish to ignore such a valuable resource. I propose that the fleets sail there and link up with the forces that the Prince has pledged. From there,” he paused as his mind envisioned the possibilities laid out before them. Maester Luwin had taught him to look at every possible angle to solve a problem – and military strategy was the same; just another problem to solve.

“From there, we march up the Boneway and into the Stormlands. Gendry – who you have legitimized as Lord Baratheon – will be able to rally the lords from Storm's End without issue. Many of them still think highly of Robert and his family there. With the Stormlands and Dorne on our side, it would be an easy thing to march into the Crownlands and isolate King's Landing by road.” he concluded.

Sansa offered him a smile, clearly impressed with his ability. “Cersei is too short sighted to think of anything other than defeating you on her terms. Bringing the fight to her from where she least expects it allows us to catch her off guard.”

Daenerys nodded, a smile forming on her face. “It is a good plan. Here is what I propose; Jon will take the Northern and Vale forces to Dorne and link up with their levies.”

* * *

“Just our forces?” he replied, brow raised.

“I cannot – and will not – allow Cersei or her stinking pirate fleet to seize control of my ancestral home. The Unsullied and Dothraki will sail with me and the dragons to Dragonstone, where we will re-establish control over the direct area.” she added, smile gone and replaced with a forming scowl.

_Splitting up is a bad idea_ , Jon knew. “If we split our ranks -” he began to protest; Daenerys silenced him with a wave of her hand.

“...it will allow us to split Cersei's forces also.” she concluded.

Turning away from the southern portion of the map, Jon walked back towards where Sansa stood at the northern part. As he walked behind her to step to her side, he slowly – and silently – gave her a gentle slap on the backside. _Every risk has a reward_ , his mischievous mind told him. Thankfully, no one noticed; too focused on the map and the laying out of strategy.

Sansa bit down on her lip and her eyes widened, a blush creeping onto her face as he settled into position next to her. Turning to him, she shook her head and grinned.

“One more thing.” Daenerys looked to him. “As we will be departing separately, I will be leaving a contingent of Unsullied behind to assist with planning and preparation for when we reunite our combined armies once more.”

Jon had to bite back a scowl. _She doesn't trust us, even still_. “We...we'd be honoured to have their experience and skill at our side, Your Grace.” he lied, irritated beyond words.

“Grey Worm, bring me the next highest-ranked officer left of the Unsullied. He will command the garrison at Winterfell.” Daenerys ordered, as the eunuch commander left the room with a bow.

* * *

Leaning on the table, Jon glanced to Sansa and Arya. “In the morning I ride for Deepwood Motte.” he announced, “I've already sent word ahead to Lord Glover.”

Arya shrugged. “He's the one who refused to fight with us, right?”

“Aye.” Jon nodded, “but now, especially now, we need all the men we can. Both to march South and to defend the people here.” He was loath to deal with Lord Robett Glover once again – the man had not just refused to help him and Sansa retake Winterfell, but had also abandoned the fight against the dead once word of Daenerys's arrival in the North became known.

Daenerys eyed the northern section of the map. “I could ride ahead of you on Drogon. Show this Lord Glover why refusing a lawful command is not a good idea.”

“No,” Jon quickly spoke up. “The North needs to know that House Targaryen is not a threat to them. If we begin burning lords who disagree with us, there won't be much of a North left. We've already lost so many Houses – the Mormonts, the Umbers, the Karstarks. It is already going to take a long time to rebuild and repopulate.”

_Terror does not make a good ruler._

“Jon is right, Your Grace.” Sansa kept her confident pose, the blush having faded from her cheeks. “The five hundred fighting men that the Glovers have at their command would be a significant boon to our forces, both here and in the south.”

Before anyone could reply, Grey Worm returned to the room with a second Unsullied trailing behind him. _Our watcher,_ Jon told himself bitterly.

“My Queen, this is Blue Flea. He is commander under this one as Unsullied.” the eunuch said, gesturing his companion forward.

Blue Flea was of a darker skin tone then Grey Worm. His face wore the same neutral expression as all Unsullied did; it was unblemished save for a scar running horizontally from his right cheek to the bottom of his neck. “This one is honoured, Mhysa.” he bowed, reverent and dutiful.

* * *

Daenerys patted the man on his shoulder. “Blue Flea, you will command the forces of the Unsullied who remain here at Winterfell. While here, you will assist the Starks and the northerners with their preparations to travel to Dorne. Jon Snow -” she pointed towards him, “- is Warden of the North and rules in my name. You will obey him as you would me.”

“This one understands.” he replied, bowing his head towards Jon.

“Good!” Tyrion cut in, clapping his hands together. “I propose we all get some rest. All of us deserve some relaxation; given what has already transpired. A few more feasts and celebrations won't hurt, I dare say.”

The room began to empty after he concluded. Jon stayed where he was, keeping his eyes on Sansa.

“Arya, we should speak in private.” he said after a long pause, “all four of us.”

* * *

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on we go! I hope you guys enjoy and thank you so much for the warm comments so far. <3 the reveal in 8x04 was crap so I tried to change it a bit better

The godswood had always been a place of healing, contemplation and peace. Since time immemorial had the Starks of Winterfell gathered here to pray, reflect and discuss sombre events with their family and advisers.

With the bodies of the ironborn defenders removed and burned, the grove had returned to its peaceful tranquility. A gentle wind blew the branches of the great weirwood tree, the red leaves swaying as Jon revealed the secret of his birth to Arya.

She raised a brow as he finished his explanation. “Truly? A Targaryen?” she asked, doubt ringing in her voice. Turning her gaze to Bran, she looked to him for answers.

“It is true.” he answered in his flat, monotone voice. It grieved Jon to no end to see the fate of his beloved brother – who had once dreamed of knighthood and adventure – reduced to having none of the personality that he'd known left, overwhelmed by the sheer knowledge thrust upon him by the so-called “three eyed raven”.

Jon sighed, his seat on the large rock next to the heart tree cold and damp. “I wish it wasn't.” he confessed; the truth had been shocking, when he'd first found out. It had – for a brief time – caused a crisis of identity within him, making him doubt who he was.

_Targaryen? Stark? Neither? Both?_ The questions had swam through his head and continued to do so at times, but he'd successfully pushed them from the head of his thoughts. No matter what blood ran through his veins, he was of the North. He had been raised a Stark alongside Eddard Stark's true blood children.

_This is my home, now and always._

* * *

Sansa sat next to him, gripping his hand tightly for support. Her presence helped ease his nerves; he had not wanted to lose his beloved little sister when he exposed the truth, but she was his family and deserved to know.

Arya blinked a few times. “Is that all?” she asked after a pause, offering an idle shrug.

“All...what?” Jon raised a brow.

She turned to face him, offering a soft smile. “All you had to tell us. Sure, it's big news – but you're still my brother. You are still one of us – now and always.” _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ Their father had taught him that.

Relief flooded Jon's body as she said that, and he let out a slight laugh. “I thought...”

“Thought what? I'd stop loving you as my brother? It'll take more then that, I'm afraid.” Arya teased, hugging him tightly. “This is where you belong. Where our family is; Father gave up his honour to see to it.”

The emotions were overwhelming for Jon, and without thinking he reached up to wipe away the hot tears he felt running down his cheeks. “It...does cause a problem, though.” he sniffed; _gods, I hate it when I cry._

“It makes Jon the heir to the Iron Throne.” Bran finished for him.

Sansa squeezed his hand tighter, her thoughts a maelstrom. “It will complicate things with Daenerys, eventually – that much is certain.”

“Who else knows?” Arya asked, going to stand at Bran's side.

Jon felt Sansa run her hand over his face, her warm and soft fingers brushing away the few tears that remained. “Other then the four of us? Samwell Tarly, Gilly – who I trust with my life, Daenerys and Tyrion Lannister, who I...don't.” he confessed. The Imp had overheard him telling Sansa in the crypt; he'd vowed to keep it a secret, but for how long?

He felt guilty that after all Tyrion had done for him – helping him to wear his mark of bastardy as armor, a lifetime ago before he joined the Night's Watch – that there was no trust between them, but Tyrion was a creature of politics and Daenerys' Hand.

Jon planted a gentle kiss on Sansa's hand as she continued to wipe at his tears. “For now, I ask all of us to say nothing. This remains between us. Daenerys wanted me to swear everyone who knew to secrecy – but I had to tell you, Arya. You deserve the truth.”

She stepped forward, squeezing his remaining hand. “And I told you that it changes nothing about us. You're still my big brother – the man who stood with me when we were children. You're a good man, Jon; I don't care what fancy Targaryen name they gave you.” she laughed.

“Aegon.” Bran answered.

“Jon. My name is Jon.” he shook his head, grinning. “It's...pretty dull, but it is what it is.”

The sound of footsteps echoed in the godswood. All conversation went silent as they grew closer.

* * *

A guard appeared in front of them, the man's face caked with sweat. “Beg pardon, m'lords, m'ladies.” he huffed, wiping his forehead, “but there's a woman at the gate who's asking to speak with Lord Brandon. She says it's important – that she knows 'im.”

Bran's face seemed to light up with the ghost of a smile. “Meera.”

“Reed? The woman who helped bring you home?” Sansa asked, slowly getting to her feet.

“Yes. Please let her into the Great Hall. We will see her in a moment.” he ordered the guard, who bowed and rushed off. Bran folded his hands into his lap. “I owe her my life. I owe her...more then what she received from me the last time we parted.”

 

* * *

 

Meera Reed looked as she did the last time Sansa had saw her, when she had first brought Bran from Castle Black. The only difference was her clothes; gone was the excessive furs she'd worn marking her as almost a wildling – in its place was a woolen shirt and breeches, both colored green, a pair of boots and a cape, emblazoned with the lizard of House Reed.

“Lady Meera,” she greeted her with a warm embrace. “Welcome back to Winterfell. You and your family will always have a place here, for all you have done for my brother.”

The crannogwoman returned the hug, though her actions felt somewhat stiff; as though she was not used to such affection. “Thank you, Lady Stark.” she replied, “my father sends his warmest greetings and pledges the faith of Greywater to Winterfell. He is sadly still too ill to travel himself.”

Jon came to Sansa's side, removing his cloak and folding it over his arm. “Lady Reed. I can not thank you enough for all you did to bring Bran home. I am only sorry I did not have the chance to thank you when you first arrived.” he smiled, sincere in his appreciation. 

She had fought for Bran when no one else would. Jon knew that her own brother Jojen – along with Bran's direwolf Summer and the stableboy Hodor – had given their lives to allow Bran to gain the powers of the 'three eyed raven' beyond the Wall; he and the living owed them a debt that could not be repaid.

“Hello, Meera.” Bran had been pushed over to where the trio stood by Arya. “It is good to see you again.”he said, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his face.

“Bran...” she said, her eyes lighting up at his presence. “I...I'm sorry we parted on such bad terms.”

Jon could hear the pain in her voice. It was clear she cared for Bran in a way that he did for Sansa. It made him feel nothing but love for this woman, this stranger – someone who had given their all for a person who could not return those feelings.

She reached out one of her lithe hands, gripping Bran's own tightly. “I wanted to see you again. I...I should have been here when the dead came. But after all that happened – my family...needed me. I had to see them.” Her voice began to break as spots of tears formed on the edges of her eyes.

Patting her hand softly, Bran nodded. “You need not apologize.”

“My lady, would you give me a moment with my brother?” Jon asked, kneeling down beside Bran and his chair. He could not simply allow this to be the Bran Stark that he would know from now on. Somewhere within the depths of the three eyed raven, there had to be a part of his little brother that was left. A part that loved Meera. _A part that could enjoy his life._

Jon turned to Bran and gazed into his eyes. “Bran, I...I know this might sound silly, but there has to be some part of you left in there. I know the boy I grew up with, the one who loved to climb and wanted to be a knight – there has to be something.”

For a moment Bran looked down at his lap. “I...I cannot be that person any more. The knowledge...the memories. They are overpowering. Far more than a normal man can take.”

“Yes you can.” he pleaded, “the war against the Night King is over. The dead are destroyed – they are gone. The three eyed raven was preparing you for that, was he not? Well, it is over. The raven or crow or whoever can give you back.”

Leaning in close to him, Jon continued. “Meera loves you. Anyone can see that. Even I can – and I am hopeless when it comes to things of that nature. Can't you see how much she hurts seeing you like this?”

“There is a part of me that feels the same for her, yes.” Bran admitted with a frown. “but all that I know ..all that I can think about is what has been given to me. I am forced to live in the past – seeing everything at once.”

“Then use that to see who you are.” Jon placed his hands on Bran's shoulders. “Brandon Stark, son of Eddard and Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. Not some three-eyed raven. At least...not always. Be the man you want to be – not the being you were forced to.”

Bran nodded, moving to rub his temples softly. “It is...hard to focus. But I know...my feelings are...in there somewhere.” Abruptly, his eyes rolled back in his head, and Jon jumped in concern.

“It's alright – that's what he does when he has his visions.” Meera noted, allowing him to relax.

* * *

 

A moment later and his eyes returned to normal. Bran looked around the room as though he were seeing for the first time. “Meera!” he gaped, tears starting to well in his eyes. “You came back! I...I'm so sorry for what happened the last time.”

Jon stepped away to allow the pair a moment.

She rushed forward, putting her hands back in his own. “I'm here, Bran.” Meera whispered, “you have nothing to apologize for...” she assured him, kissing his hands.

“I love you, Meera.” Bran admitted, “so much. I wish I had...had been able to tell you before.”

_I knew he was still in there_ , Jon thought proudly. He looked to Sansa, who moved to stand next to him. She took his hand in her own as they observed the pair.

Turning to Jon, Bran smiled. “I can't stay like this forever, Jon. The memories and knowledge is too much to hold back for long. But I can at least feel something of who I was...no, of who I am. He's still in there, like you said.”

“I'm glad, Bran.” Jon beamed. “You deserve all the happiness in the world.” _We all do, after what's happened to our family._

Bran reached out and kissed Meera, wrapping his arms around her. She returned his embrace with one of her own, sobbing. “I...I don't have long, Meera.” he said at last, “but I want...want you to be my wife. If you..if you'll have me.”

“You don't even need to ask.” she whispered, running her hands up and down his face.

Sansa relaxed into Jon's chest, leaning against him as she watched her little brother with a mixture of happiness and pride. _We can finally rebuild_ , she told herself. Me, Jon, Arya, and Bran. _After all that's been given to give us a second chance..._

She thought of Theon, of Beric Dondarrion the Lightning Lord, of Jorah Mormont. Of Dolorus Edd and the Night's Watch. Of the hundreds of thousands of others who had died, both northerners and southerners alike.

And while war still loomed on the horizon, she would do everything in her power to ensure that her family – Jon included – would survive, without losing who they were in the process.

* * *

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> think this is my weakest chapter so far. but hope you guys enjoy anyway!

The road to Deepwood Motte was clear and desolate; indeed, Jon and his escorts saw no people during their travels. The surviving small-folk were slowly returning to their villages, holdfasts and castles but with so many dead, it would take a great deal of time for a sense of normalcy to return to the regions of the North.

Still, at the very least normalcy would return. The Night King had been stopped, and the greatest threat not just to the North but to the realm itself had been destroyed. All that was lost can be rebuilt, Jon told himself.

The horses approached the first of Deepwood Motte's outer walls. Jon took note of the shallow pits in front of them, the faint smell of death lingering in the air. Ghost too, who had been running alongside the horses at his own pace, began to growl and tense up as they drew nearer.

_It seems the Glovers had a battle of their own with the dead_ , Jon mused.

Most of the fighting had been confined to Winterfell and the surrounding areas, but it was quite possible that some wights had broken off from the main group to terrorize the outlying holdfasts and castles.

One of the sentries on the wall spotted them as they approached. “Who goes there?” he called out, drawing the attention of others on guard.

Jon drew his horse closer to the gate as his escort remained back some distance. “Jon Snow, Warden of the North. I sent word to Lord Glover to expect me.” he announced, holding up a hand. Let them see he was here in peace, not force. The men who the Glovers called theirs – at last count, some five hundred – had walled up inside their fortress and waited out the dead.

It was a smart strategy, he had to admit – but Lord Robett had pledged to fight beside House Stark – and he had broken that pledge once again. It took some time – and discussion with Sansa – for Jon to reach a decision when it came to them.

As much as it angered him that the Glovers had once again abandoned a pledge they had made to Winterfell, the men that remained within the walls of Deepwood were far more valuable then exacting any kind of 'justice' upon their liege lord.

“Open the gates!” shouted one of the sentries.

 

* * *

As Jon and his party entered the castle proper, his mind was elsewhere. He was back in Winterfell, with his family. With Sansa. She was on his mind most often; indeed, during the ride to Deepwood he had seen her in his dreams every single night he closed his eyes.

Their feelings for one another had been evident for some time, he realized – since before he left for Dragonstone. But Jon had believed himself her half-brother then, and had been completely unable to act upon them. But now with the truth of his parentage revealed to him it had been far easier to fall into temptation for them both.

He did not want to leave the North. It was his home – it was a part of him just as Ghost was.

The direwolf obediently followed Jon as the sentries lead him towards the main keep. Around him, men and women – small-folk mostly – watched the wolf with fear and bewilderment. It was a common reaction for those not used to him. Despite his large size and fearsome appearance Ghost was silent and gentle, mostly spending his free time hunting in the Wolfswood or running free around Winterfell.

He had fought bravely in the battle against the Night King, and the wrappings along his side and the bloody stump of his right ear had proved that. Jon still felt the wounds acutely, given the special connection he had with his friend.

Ghost was more then a pet, and had always been such – he was a part of Jon's soul.

“My lord,” the sentry said, nervously edging closer to him. “the great hall is not suited for your companion.”

Jon smirked. “No, I suppose it is not.” He knelt before Ghost, rubbing a hand through his head affectionately. “You wait out here, boy. I won't be long.”

The wolf laid down in front of the stairs, watching Jon intently as he climbed.

 

* * *

Deepwood Motte's Great Hall was smaller then Winterfell's, Jon remembered; he had come here once long ago with his lord father in regards to some dispute with the previous lord, Galbart Glover. At that time, the hall had four large tables shaped as a square around a large firepit.

Times had changed and now three of the tables were gone, leaving only the lord's table at the far end of the room. Aside from a few guards, he spied two people sitting by the small fireplace awaiting his arrival.

“Jon Snow, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” the sentry announced.

Robett Glover looked the same as he always did – dour. His face was a perpetual frown, with his great beard seeming more unkempt then it had been the last time Jon had seen him in Winterfell. His hair was longer then before, also messy and disorganized; he was clearly a man who had been under a tremendous amount of stress.

Beside him sat a woman of about fifty; she had her black hair tied into a bun and projected a more regal appearance then did the lord. Her dress was adorned with the mailed fist of House Glover – and so Jon knew her to be Sybelle Glover, Robett's wife.

“My Lord,” Jon offered a bow of his head as he approached the table. “my Lady. I am glad to see that you have survived this crisis intact.”

Lady Sybelle rose to her feet, returning the gesture. “Thank you for your kind words, my lord. The coming of the dead was...a terrifying affair, for myself and my children – but the men of House Glover managed to stem the tide. And thanks to you and your brave sister, the Others have been destroyed once and for all.” she said, smiling softly to him.

Robett said nothing, merely staring down at his hands. “Leave us, wife.” he barked after an uncomfortable silence.

Silently, Lady Glover shuffled from the room, making mention that she would be in the godswood saying a prayer for the dead. After the doors to the hall were shut, it left only Lord Robett and Jon along with a few guards, who were silent and unmoving on each of the walls.

* * *

It was then that the Lord of Deepwood Motte rose to his feet. “I know why you have come.” he said simply, stepping around from the table to stand directly in front of Jon, “you wish to confront me, that much is obvious.”

“You swore a vow to House Stark,” Jon reminded him, keeping his tone neutral. “and once more, you broke your word, my lord. I forgave you the last time -”

“I did swear an oath to House Stark – and to Jon Snow, the KING in the North.” Glover spat bitterly. “I did not swear an oath to a man who would give away the North into the hands of foreign invaders once again.”

Jon nodded. In truth, he understood the man's anger – the North had spent too long under the heel of tyrants and mad-men, but what choice was he left with? “If we had not had those foreign invaders to help us, then all of us would be part of the army of the dead. You, your lady wife, your children and your grand-children.” he replied, “and I do not think any of us want that.”

Snorting, Glover shook his head. “No, we don't. But now thanks to your 'pledge' – we have to bend our knees to a Targaryen ruler. The same people who burned your grandfather and uncle alive. The same family that abducts and rapes Stark women. The same people who use fire to terrorize and oppress.”

“Your anger is understandable, Lord Glover.” Jon said, cautiously testing the waters, “but even you must admit that we needed their armies. We needed their dragons. Queen Daenerys sacrificed most of her forces to aid us against the dead.”

“That she did -” he conceded, “but the Mad King's daughter is NOT a woman I wish to follow.”

Jon's mind thought quickly. It was no secret that once the war against the Lannister was won, negotiations for the status of the North would have to take place. If Jon capitulated fully to Daenerys, it would likely result in a full-scale revolt that could send the realm back into war once more. That was something to be avoided at all costs.

_She needs us._

 

* * *

Folding his hands together, Jon nodded. “Consider this, my lord – the North must now take up arms against the Lannisters. Against the same family who murdered your brother. Who cut down hundreds if not thousands of your people on the fields of battle. Who murdered my brother Robb. We have been left with too few men to both defend the North and attack the south. Your men may make the difference.”

That brought a laugh from the man. “So you want my men to bleed and die for another foreign ruler? If you've come this far to beg, I am afraid you will be disappointed.”

“I want your men to take up arms against the family that has caused us lasting harm.” Jon shot back. “You cannot tell me you wish to see the likes of Cersei Lannister go unpunished for all she has done to you and yours.”

“That is not the point!” Robett grumbled.

With a shrug, Jon continued. “When this war is over and she has been dealt with, Daenerys will know that our soldiers brought her to victory instead of her own. She will need to accept a negotiation regarding the status of the North.”

Ruffling his brow in confusion, Glover narrowed his eyes. “And what will this negotiation consist of?”

“That is up to those who negotiate with her. I would be happy to include you and your House in said negotiations.” Jon noted.

“Why should we have to negotiate for our freedom?” Glover said, running a hand through his beard. “We earned our freedom the last time under you and your brother before you.”

“That you did, my lord. But if we fail against the Lannisters, they will not sit idly by and allow us to remain a free and independent kingdom. House Targaryen will be open to the idea – once the war is won – because Queen Daenerys needs us. And she knows that, too.” Jon noted, “think about it.”

That drew Glover's attention. “My men...would need to fight for her?”

Shaking his head, Jon looked around the hall. “No, they would fight alongside me. I will be sailing to Dorne to link up with the Dornish forces that have pledged to the Queen. The Northern forces and the Vale will be accompanying me.”

“Some of your men will remain here, to assure peace and safety for the people of the North.” Jon finished, knowing from the look on Glover's face that he was seriously considering the proposal.

“And in return?” Glover huffed, his shoulders slumping.

* * *

_This is a way to ensure his loyalty. It is a difficult choice, but one that must be made._

“Your grand-daughter will travel back with me to Winterfell. She will be a guest of House Stark and will work and learn alongside Lady Sansa.” Jon disliked such tactics, but sometimes one must be a hard ruler to ensure stability.

The man's scowl deepened. “A hostage.”

“A _guest,_ ” Jon corrected. “I am sorry for such a drastic measure, my lord – but you have said two oaths before and reneged upon them. We have no choice but to take a more...certain solution to ensure that House Glover will uphold its oath.”

Allowing a moment of silence to fall over the room, the Lord of Deepwood Motte sighed. Returning to his seat, he waved for the door. “My men will be yours once you and my grand-daughter arrive safe at Winterfell.”

A servant entered the room. “Fetch Ethena.” Glover ordered, his mood considerably more sullen.

* * *

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurray for smut! I suck at writing love scenes but i hope you guys enjoy <3

Jon sat in his room, enjoying the silence of the night. The journey from Deepwood Motte had taken five days; even with Ethena Glover riding with him, their progress was quick and surprisingly fast. Still, he was not complaining; he missed the simplicity of Winterfell and what he was used to.

“How is Lady Ethena?” he asked Sansa, who sat next to him. She had taken supper with him here, as they had for the last few nights as a way to catch up with one another after his short absence.

She smiled. “Well. She's a bright young girl; good with sums and writing. Also interested in learning more arts of the sword.” Sansa said, grinning as she took another spoonful of soup.

The soup was a simple tomato and mushroom, prepared by the servants that day. Jon found it a good and hearty dish to return home to. Never fond of the elaborate foods of the south, he was only too happy to indulge the basic dishes that the North was fond of.

“Now that the Targaryen forces are gone, we can start taking stock of our stores again.” she continued, “things are still looking good for our food supplies, but I worry about having enough to last us through until the harvest begins.”

Jon nodded. “Agreed.” Sansa was always good at the administrative aspects of ruling; Jon had done his best to learn from her in this regard. He had some experience with aspects such as numbers, sums and supply from his time as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but he had always been too busy launching himself into the defence of the realm from the Others.

Sansa looked at him. “Are you happy to be home?” she smiled, reaching her hand over to grasp his own. He responded to her gesture by bringing her hand to his lips, kissing it gently.

“Every night I dreamed of you.” he admitted with a blush.

That drew a laugh from her as she finished the last of the soup. “Oh, did you? Why what a coincidence – so did I.”

Suddenly Jon felt as though the room was getting hot. He felt the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. “Sansa...” he whispered as she rose to her feet, her own face now beet red even in the candlelight.

Her hands went to the back of her dress, working the laces deftly. “Before you leave again..” she said, her voice hoarse and low, “...I want you, Jon. I want us to..to live. I want a man who will love me and be gentle with me, not take me like some brood mare.”

Within moments, the dress dropped to the floor, exposing her silken small-clothes to him. Sansa approached him, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. He pushed himself into her, lips grasping hers as they kissed, bodies pushing against one another.

Jon's hands ran over her body, tracing the myriad scars upon her back with anger. The abuse and ill-treatment Sansa had suffered made his heart ache; he wished beyond hope that he had been able to free her, to keep her from enduring the horrors she was forced into.

* * *

His need grew, his cock straining against his breeches. Sansa moved her hands to his shirt, breaking their kiss as she looked to him for approval. Nodding, Jon lifted his arms up as she slid the shirt up, tossing it aside as it came free.

Her hands ran softly over his scars. “I'm so sorry for what they did to you.” she whispers.

“It's alright.” Jon replied, hands running through her hair; her beautiful, fiery hair. Sansa kissed him again, their bodies continuing to press against each other. Low moans escaped from both of them as Jon fumbled with the top part of her small-clothes, making no headway as the straps continued to frustrate him.

Rising off of him, Sansa pulled him to his feet, gently guiding him to the bed. Her hands went to the laces of his breeches, her fingers deftly unlacing them as she planted small kisses along his neck. Jon could do nothing but moan, the feeling of her body against his providing a surge of pleasure to his already overwhelmed brain.

Eventually she pulled his breeches down and pushed him backwards onto the bed.

Jon watched as she removed her small-clothes with surprising speed. He took the time to admire her body; the shapely curves of her hips, the pink tint of her hard nipples and the small strip of red hair in between her legs.

“Gods, you're beautiful.” he whispered.

Sansa smiled as she straddled his lap, rubbing her womanhood against his hardened member. With a wistful sigh, she looked down at him. “Thank you for letting me take charge, Jon.”

Jon nodded, his hands resting on her hips, fingers caressing the soft skin. “You can...can take charge any time, sweet girl.” he said, nearly breathless. “I do not mind at all.”

* * *

Carefully she guided his manhood inside of her, Jon letting out a moan as she did so, his body shivering as she gently lowered herself down until it was fully within. “S...Sansa...” Jon gasped, his fingers digging into her hips reflexively.

Slowly she began to ride him, her hands resting on his chest. Her moans began to increase in volume, her breasts bouncing gently to the speed of her pace. Jon felt nothing but bliss in this moment; his mind was overloaded with pleasure and desire as he watched her move, sweat falling from her brow.

Leaning down, Sansa kissed him once again while continuing her pace, her gasps and moans muffled as he returned her kiss with the same passion she was showing him. “Gods, Jon...it feels so good...” she whimpered as his hands rested upon her backside, guiding her as she moved.

“You feel so good, Sansa...” Jon moaned, his mind barely able to form a coherent sentence.

She giggled as her moans resumed, their kisses muffling the sounds of their lovemaking as much as could be done. “I love you, Jon.” she whispered, “so much.”

Finding himself unable to answer Jon merely nodded, his body shaking slightly as he felt himself about to peak. “Won't...last long...” he wheezed as she straightened herself back up, her body covered in a sheen of sweat as her first orgasm hit.

Sansa bit down on her lip to stop from crying out as she shook violently, nearly bucking herself off him. Jon grasped her hips for support as she steadied herself and quickened her pace, the pressure on his cock building even further.

Rolling his hips, Jon let out a mix between a moan and a growl as he spilled himself inside of her, his eyes rolling backwards in his head as he felt his release wash over him like a splash of cold water. He felt his heart beating like a drum in his ears as he came down.

Gasping with pleasure as he came, Sansa collapsed on-top of him, panting wildly. “I don't want you to go.” she whispered, gently sliding herself off of his shrinking member but making no move to leave, “but I know, you have no choice.”

“I will return,” Jon finally was able to catch his breath enough to speak, “I don't make promises that I cannot keep.”

* * *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very sorry for the delay. I hope you guys enjoy!!!
> 
> I like comments and reviews :D

“My lord,” came the voice of a guard from in front of the cabin door. “Lord Baratheon wishes to see you.”

Jon put the quill in his hand down and stood up from his seat. “Send him in.” he commanded. Having spent the majority of the voyage to Dorne thus far in solitude reading over various messages and other business Sansa had asked him to approve, it was a welcome distraction.

Gendry swept into the room, offering a bow as he did so. “Sorry to disturb you,” he apologized, running a hand through his hair. “but I wanted to talk to you about...about something. I should have mentioned it before we cast off, but I sort of forgot.”

Raising a brow, Jon gestured for him to sit. He'd known Gendry since their expedition beyond the Wall – yet they had not had much time to speak to one another. Jon knew he'd traveled with Arya briefly, and had helped her survive during the early days after their father's death. _For that, he has my gratitude._

Jon also knew he was still coming to terms with his new station; to go from a blacksmith's apprentice to the head of a major house was a significant shock for him. _He will be a good lord_ , Jon concluded. He was strong like the tales said about Robert Baratheon and he had the experience of the common people to humble and help him in his task.

The new lord of Storm's End was sweating and looked around the room nervously. “I respect what you have done, I hope you know that.” he began, wringing his hands together, “and being a Lord is...well, it's far more then I deserve. I still don't even know how to read or write -”

Laughing, Jon shook his head. “Maester Connors at Storm's End has already been made aware of your coming. He has pledged to assist you and advise you until you are able to read, do sums and compose your own letters.”

There had been those lords in the past who could not read, Jon knew – and the maesters were as valuable to them as gold. But Gendry showed potential; he clearly did want to learn, and thus his own thoughts and counsel would be kept.

“Aye, but...” Gendry sighed. “It's about Arya that I really came to see you for.”

* * *

That caught Jon's attention. “You know how grateful I am to you for what you did for her.”

“Well, it's just that...do you remember the battle against the dead? The hours before they came.” he asked, frown apparent on his lips.

Jon could only nod. He remembered the stillness and silence of that night, the utter desperation and negative energy that wafted through the halls of Winterfell like a bad fog. It was the night he revealed the truth about his parentage to Daenerys. A sour taste took hold as he thought of it; her concerns had been about the Iron Throne and nothing else.

 _The damn chair means more to her than anything._ The thought quickly faded from his mind as he returned to the present. He could not spend his time brooding on Daenerys and her attitudes. There was a war to be won – and he'd promised Sansa he would return.

Gendry laid his hands on the table. “Arya came to see me. We talked for a while an-and...”

“Yes?” Jon asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Sex. We had sex.” Gendry blurted out, his face beet red.

It took him a moment to process what had been said. Jon's eyes went wide as dinner plates and he shook his head, not believing what he'd heard. “Beg your pardon?” he asked, needing to be sure. _Gods, am I going mad?_

Gendry sighed. “After the victory, I asked her to be my wife. Lady of Storm's End.” he smiled almost wistfully at the memory, “but she refused.”

Unable to help himself Jon chuckled, bringing a hand to his mouth. “Well I can tell you one thing – that is not who Arya is. She is not the kind of woman to desire to be a lady; settling down, having children, sewing, what have you. She has always been – and will always be – a wild wolf. She carries herself in her own way.”

* * *

“Still, it hurt.” Gendry frowned, “I love her.”

Reaching out, Jon patted Gendry's muscled shoulder. “Hurt as it may, we need you to be prepared for when we land. You will need to have a clear and balanced mind to gather the Storm Lords to your side. But, I will say this – Arya clearly cares about you. If she did not, she would not have done...that.”

As harsh as he sounded Jon knew it to be true. Gendry needed to be ready – the support of the Stormlands was critical. He could not be distracted by his pining of Arya. _Though_ , his mind was quick to remind him, _you are distracted by thoughts of Sansa._

It hurt to be away from her. Jon had struggled for the first week of the voyage, with his dreams filled of images of her smile, her perfect, radiant hair and her beautiful eyes. Normally such images would be warmth to a cold night, but here – far away from Winterfell and her – it was a torture.

Some nights were easier then others. The wolf dreams had continued; he was able to be with her in spirit if not in body. Ghost was almost always at her side when he was not hunting in the wolfswood; as much as Jon missed his friend, he knew that the direwolf would not be happy in the south; he was better suited to remain with Sansa until his return.

Gendry shrugged. “I have no idea how to keep loyalty. All I've done is make weapons and armor for those above me.”

“I will be with you when you arrive at Storm's End. I promise that I and Ser Davos will offer as much counsel and advice as we can to help you prepare for the arrival of your banner men. They still – as much as Daenerys wishes to believe otherwise – hold dear to the memory of your father.” Jon explained once more.

* * *

“Take these three letters.” he grasped several sheets of parchment; part of the work he'd been spending the last few hours on, “you see, all told the North lost three Great Houses during the fight against the dead. House Umber, House Karstark and House Mormont. Extinguished; their heirs and lords slain. Lady Sansa and I have been going over how best to process the loss of those houses.

The Umbers -” Jon held up one sheet in particular, “-well, that one is easy. The previous lord to young Ned was his father Jon, who has a sister married to a lesser knight in the Westerlands. She will return home and claim the Last Hearth as Lady Umber now. Sansa and I both have approved this.”

“The Mormont claim is similar.” he continued. “Lady Lyanna was only a child herself when slain, but it turns out that she has a bastard-born brother living on Bear Island. The boy is only one-and-six but given the loss of the rest of his family, Sansa and I shall legitimize him as Lord Mormont and allow him to take control of the House.”

Jon sighed, putting down the sheets of paper. “The Karstark claim is simple – there is no claim. Their family has been extinguished from history. So, Karhold now returns to Winterfell's possession. And it is up to me – with the help of Lady Sansa – to find a suitable person to grant the castle to.”

Gendry nodded slowly. “These are part of your lord's decisions?”

“They are.” Jon confirmed, “but my point is that each choice a lord makes will be a difficult one. My own lord father once said that being a lord requires a balance of open hand and closed fist.” It was important for the new Lord Baratheon to know these lessons, he told himself. _If I could teach him the better._

“If you are too open with them – too kind, too generous, too trusting – they will exploit that to their advantage. They will disrespect you and cease to obey your commands.” Jon went on, “but if you are too closed with them – too brutal, too cold, too demanding – they will despise you. They will find ways to undermine you; assisting rebellions, building networks – even outright resisting your rule.”

“Do you really think I am cut out for this kind of thing?” Gendry doubted.

Jon gave a noncommittal shrug. “None of us bastard-born truly are.” he said quickly, “but sometimes we must take the reigns even if they were not meant for us to start with.”

* * *

Rising from the chair Jon urged Gendry to do the same. “I know it sounds daunting, but you will be a Lord of wisdom, fairness and firmness. You will do justice and keep the peace.” he smiled with a firm shake of the young man's hand.

“Thank you, m'lord.” he stammered, turning to the door.

Jon stepped over to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder swiftly. “One thing, though – Arya is my sister. She is dear to me as few others are. If she does by chance return to you and decides to accept your offer of marriage – which I doubt – but if she does, I urge you to treat her with kindness, respect and love.”

Gendry smiled. “Of course, I would never -”

“Because if you do not, well – let us just say that eunuchs are not meant to continue the line of a Great House.” Jon patted him on the back as he opened the door, “and that is not my threats – it is a warning of her own wrath.”

After he left the room, Jon could not help but laugh at the way his face paled at the remark. With a shake of his head, he returned to the desk and to his letters, pushing the thought of Gendry and Arya's coupling from his mind and replacing it with thoughts of Sansa and of home.

* * *

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Hardest chapter to write thus far. Will do my best to return to a normal schedule soon!

Jon pushed some of the Martell markers across the map in front of him. “Once the last of the banners are raised, we can begin the march to the Boneway.” he explained, looking around the room to the assembled Dornish commanders.

Their arrival had been met with the Prince of Dorne himself.

Quentyn Martell – a young, learned and cautious individual – watched the movement on the map with a slow nod of approval. “And then your plan is to rally the Stormlands with Lord Baratheon, here.” he gestured towards Gendry.

“Correct.” Jon knew the enmity between the Martells and Baratheons was still deep-seated; Dorne had not forgiven Gendry's late father for the role he played in the deaths of Elia Martell and her children.

Yet, both sides now needed to co-operate if they were to bring down an even greater enemy in the House of Lannister itself.

Scoffing, Lord Anders Yronwood glared towards Jon. “And you expect us to stand with you as we help seat the Usurper's bastard in Storm's End? This plan is idiotic.”

He expected resistance from the Dornish lords at the plan, but it could not helped. _We need to win this war together_ , Jon knew.

“If there is to be a united Westeros, truly at peace once again...” Jon turned his gaze to the man, “then yes, my lord. We must show Cersei a united front. You cannot tell me that you have grown fond of her all of a sudden?”

Yronwood looked to Prince Quentyn. “My Prince, surely you cannot -” he began.

“Cannot what?” The Prince replied, looking up from the map. “We cannot hope to defeat Cersei or the Golden Company alone. Our own strength has waned over the last few years. How else are we to secure justice for our own people?”

Gendry raised his hand, which caused Jon to suppress a chuckle. “I know that my father did horrible things to become King. And, I never really knew him before he died – I saw him at parades and what have you. But I'm not him.” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“I was a blacksmith's apprentice before the Queen named me Lord.”

“There is one thing that we would need, Lord Snow.” Quentyn fixed his gaze to Jon. “Gregor Clegane still somehow lives, despite my uncles' best attempt at killing him with the manticore venom upon his spear. His head is the price we Dornishmen cry out for.”

Jon merely nodded. _Clegane is a monster and needs to be put down._

“I propose we should get some rest.” The Prince turned from the map, “I am told Lord Jordayne and his forces will arrive on the morrow. We can resume discussion on terms of agreement then.”

* * *

The cool air blew through Jon's open window. With a contented sigh, he took a seat and drank deep of a cup of water. The heat of the days had been overwhelming; though Jon knew that Gendry and Davos did not feel as he did; they were from the South and more used to arid climates.

Wiping sweat from his brow, he leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes.

The discussions would continue into the next day, and until the last of the Dornish levies had arrived and prepared to march. Despite Prince Quentyn's support for House Targaryen, it was still difficult for them to accept and trust the Stormlanders.

Jon was unsure how to proceed. He would have to resume discussion with Prince Quentyn, perhaps in private. Without the blustering of the Dornish lords, it would be much easier to have a reasoned discussion.

There had been no word from Daenerys or Dragonstone. However, that was not considered abnormal – it was highly likely that the fleet was still debarking after their arrival.

 _I suppose it is up to me then,_ Jon told himself.

* * *

His mind drifted away from Dornish politics and to home. To Winterfell.

To Sansa.

Getting up from the seat near the window, he walked to the desk and pulled out a parchment and quill.

“ _Dearest Sansa,_

_Words cannot fully explain how dearly I miss you. I long for your touch, your smile – your presence alone. The South is as expected; hot, arid and exhausting. Dorne in particular is quite the experience, one that I wish you could share with me to ease my suffering.”_

A knock at the door interrupted his writing.

“It's open.” Jon called, eyes darting away from his letter.

* * *

The flowing orange robe told him it was Arianne Martell before she had crossed the threshold of the room. The sister of Prince Quentyn, she was a trusted adviser and partner in matters relating to ruling; the relationship between the two seemed as it was between him and Sansa before their feelings had manifested.

“My lord,” she bowed, her robe offering ample view of her bust. “I do apologize for interrupting you, but I hoped to speak with you away from my brother and the other lords.”

Jon nodded, gesturing her to a seat. “Please, Lady Arianne. I would welcome a distraction from my own frustration.” he explained, “trying to ensure a positive relationship between Dorne and the Iron Throne is proving difficult.”

“Not the least of which has to do with the company kept.” she said, sitting down carefully across from him. “Many of the lords do not approve of helping the Baratheon bastard.”

Pouring her a cup of water, Jon took a sip from his own glass. “Even still. I had hoped that their enmity for Cersei Lannister may win out over their misliking of Gendry. He did not even know Robert was his father until after the man was dead.”

Arianne drank deep of the cup. Reclining in the chair, she sighed. “I would agree with you, my lord. Quent, too – as soon as the rest of our forces arrive we will march at once. But many of the lords feel this to be folly.”

 _What do you want, woman?_ Jon knew she had an ulterior motive to being here. Small talk was something that always concealed a persons' true desires.

“Justice for Elia Martell should motivate them well,” he observed. “I promised the Prince that Gregor Clegane would be brought to justice, and he will.”

“That you did.” she said, placing the cup on the table.

* * *

Jon wiped his brow, feeling the sweat return to him once again. “I do not mean to be so blunt with you, my lady – but what is it the Prince desires? I know you have not come here simply to learn more about me.”

Arianne laughed, holding up her hands in a mocking gesture.

“But what if I have? You are a very interesting man, Jon Snow.” she observed with a grin, her eyes darting up and down his body. “Your story is fascinating, truly. A bastard boy who rises to be King. It is perfect for songs.”

“I want no songs written about me, my lady. I assure you that to get here has not been easy.” he shot back. The struggles and challenges were legion enough; they had not even finished deposing Cersei yet.

She stood up and walked towards the door, her hips swaying as she did. Turning her head towards him, she smirked. “Quent wanted me to get the measure of you, Jon Snow.” she said with a wink. “Rest well, now. Forget your troubles for one night.”

Finally alone, Jon returned to his letter and thoughts of Sansa.

Thoughts of home.

_Soon, sweet girl. Soon, we will be reunited._

* * *

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I return from the dead voila

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments

The nearly-empty halls of Storms' End echoed around Jon as he and Gendry entered the lord's solar, where his father and generations of Baratheons before him had held court.

Gendry looked around, his eyes as wide as dinner plates as Maester Connors prattled on about the castle's rich history. The man had been in service for over three decades, and had a fierce sense of pride in the knowledge he carried.

“...with the return of a young Baratheon, my hopes were renewed.” the old man said, stopping before the raised seat in the centre chamber. “with the death of Stannis Baratheon in the North and his daughter along with him, I thought the line of Orys was extinguished forever.”

Jon kept a respectful distance, allowing Gendry the moment. This was his seat now, his place of power.

_To rise from a blacksmith to a lord so quickly,_ he mused. _It must be overwhelming._ It echoed his own rise from bastard to Lord Commander to King. Jon could not help but shake his head; the realm had a strange way of directing those who did not seek power into its halls.

* * *

Gendry was now sitting in the lord's chair as the maester continued on. “Uh, hold on.” he interrupted, raising a hand. “I don't know the first thing about being a lord, incomes, or anything. I can't even read or write.” He sighed, flushed with embarrassment, “I was a blacksmith's apprentice. It was never something expected of me.”

That did not seem to trouble the old maester. “Lord Snow already expressed the same facts to me, my lord. It is of no matter, I swear to you. I will read and write your sums for you until such time that you are able to yourself.” he beamed.

From his position in the hall Jon wondered about the progress of Davos and the Northern forces. He had split them off from the Martell army and sent them to Dragonstone in order to prepare for the siege of King's Landing; more importantly, Davos carried a message to Sansa that he would dispatch upon arrival.

_Sansa._

Jon smiled at the thought of her. She was the reason he was here; to fight for the North in cooperation with the dragon queen. When this was over, they would be in a strong position to negotiate concessions from her in regards to their future.

While Daenerys could be volatile, Jon felt she had honest intentions at the very least.

Much to his shame, his mind already worked to exploit those intentions to ensure a lasting peace for Winterfell – and to allow him to return home to the one he loved. His honour felt besmirched by such a plotting mindset.

However, in order to get back to Sansa – to where his heart remained – he would do whatever it took.

“Jon?” Gendry called, asking him over to where he stood next to the maester.

Acting quickly he stepped up to the platform, offering a smile. “You very much look ready, my lord Baratheon.” he quipped, causing Gendry to roll his eyes in frustration.

“I was explaining to the young Lord that – as per your raven, should you wish the might of the Stormlands to rise against House Lannister – it is imperative that you summon the leaders of the houses to meet with their new liege and pledge him their fealty.” Maester Connors spoke carefully, glancing to both men.

It would not be as easy as that.

Jon knew that the lords of the Stormlands had no love for Cersei or the Lannisters – given they were responsible for the death of King Robert, a man they universally beloved even to this day.

However their power had been expended through the many conflicts belonging to Stannis Baratheon – with the last of their major armies destroyed outside of Winterfell thanks to the former power of House Bolton.

_We will need to move carefully._ “It is imperative that we do.” Jon agreed, “but we must not allow them to think you too weak or inexperienced that they need not respect your position.”

“How do we do that?” asked Gendry, eyes darting between the two men.

Jon gestured out to the empty hall. “The lords will call when Maester Connors sends the ravens. They will answer the call of a Baratheon – but it is up to how you present yourself that will determine their reaction. They will stand before you, here.”

Taking a few steps down, he turned back towards the lord's seat. “They will look up at you. Look up to you for guidance, for strength and inspiration. It will be then that we – you – must lay out what our next steps will be.”

“Justice for King Robert. Justice for all of the lives lost in the battles of the realm. Blackwater Bay, Winterfell, uncounted others. You must show them that the words of House Baratheon live on within Gendry of Storm's End – Ours Is the Fury.”

* * *

A sense of pride twinged in Jon's heart as he finished, stepping back up to where he previously stood. It had not been easy to embrace this side of him – diving head-first into the political machinations of the realm as he had – but he realized that this pragmatism, this hardness, it was necessary to ensure the safety of those he loved.

Sansa had been right, as ever. We are entering a dangerous game, she had warned him. Jon knew the fight for Winterfell, for the North – for House Stark itself – was upon him, despite the currently-stated objectives of this war.

“An impressive speech, my lord.” the maester nodded his approval. “I do believe that my lord Gendry would be best served by taking heart from it. Given that Lord Snow rose from baseborn origins as you did, drawing inspiration from his words may help calm your nerves.”

Jon bit down on his cheek. Connors's words were meant to be supportive but given the circumstances of what he knew, it merely struck a sour blow to his heart. The thoughts of depression were still ever-present in the back of his mind, and it had taken much for him to push them to the side and focus on the present.

_I am Jon Snow,_ he told himself. _I am not Aegon Targaryen. I never was._

* * *

 

The battlements of Storm's End allowed Jon to watch over the Dornish camps, with rows and rows of spear banners stretching out over the fields in front of the large drawbridge leading to the castle itself.

Cool air blew against his face softly as a gentle wind drifted in from the sea. It had only been some four days since their arrival, but there still had been no word from Dragonstone or from Davos, though he expected the Northern forces were still making their way across the plains.

Folding his arms over his chest, he exhaled deeply, doing his best to steady his nerves. There was still a long way to go; Gendry had to convince the lords to support him before their combined strength could even think of making their way up the Crownlands.

“Pardon my interruption,” a voice echoed from his right.

Turning quickly Jon found Prince Quentyn standing at the door, an apologetic smile upon his face. Many of his advisers had objected at his decision to ride out with the Dornish armies, but the young leader had been confident and firm in his choice – Sunspear and Dorne as a whole was safe under the temporary rule of his sister, the enigmatic Arianne.

“No apologies needed, Prince Quentyn.” Jon bowed his head in greeting. “I just felt the need for some air.”

He had seen little of the Dornish leader since their march began; presumably he was busy coordinating the movement of his armies and lords as Gendry would soon be.

Coming to rest beside Jon, Quentyn looked out over the wall and towards his forces. His young face was free of blemishes, though he still wore a pensive expression that reminded Jon of poor Dolorous Edd's own sullen gaze. “Gendry – apologies, Lord Baratheon – tells me that the lords of the Stormlands will be arriving soon to hopefully pledge fealty.” he observed, resting a hand on the stone. “Do you believe they will offer the support we need?”

“It is difficult to say.” Jon was honest in his assessment. “They have suffered grievous losses fighting for Lord Stannis. Yet they bear the Lannisters nothing but hatred and contempt. If revenge is what they seek, they will choose to support Gendry as needed.”

The cause of revenge and justice was an attractive one to most men, Jon mused. Given the many crimes committed by House Lannister – and Cersei in particular – it would not be easy to find those willing to rise up in opposition to her once a suitable resistance could be coordinated.

Quentyn's expression remained the same, though he took Jon's words with a nod. “So long as he has the right advisors and counsel, I feel he will be a good ruler. While inexperienced, he has the potential to become one of the best and brightest of our age.”

“High praise indeed.” Jon observed.

“He reminds me of myself, in a way.” A weary sigh escaped his lips. “I was off in Essos with Arianne when our father was murdered, and Tristane with him. By the time we made our way back to Sunspear, Dorne faced collapse and anarchy. We had to step in and ensure our family's survival, but more so our people's.”

Knowing little of the situation in Dorne prior to his own arrival, Jon remained quiet on the subject as he allowed the young lord to speak. “But now we stand as allies of the Queen and look to bring justice to all who suffered under her – my uncle, cousins and aunt all.”

“Even the woman who murdered your father and brother?” Jon asked with surprise. He knew only what Tyrion had informed him – Dorne's ruler, Ellaria Sand, had murdered Doran Martell after her anger with his inaction had become too much to bear. She in turn had pledged Dorne to Daenerys – only to see most of their fleet destroyed and herself captured.

“I pity Ellaria and the girls, in truth.” Quentyn frowned. “They allowed their anger – righteous as it was – to fall upon my father, wishing and praying for someone to rend and tear. Cersei and the Lannisters were out of their reach, so they remained close to home.”

A gentle silence settled over them as they stood watching the plains below. “We will see justice done, my lord.” Jon finally said as he broke the moment, “rest assured. For all who have suffered and died – the gods willing, we will set things right.”

“It will take us a fight, it seems.” Quentyn looked serious as he pulled out a scroll. “My scouts just returned from the Kingsroad into the Crownlands. The picture is bleak – it seems the Golden Company has begun fortifying the entirety of the Kingswood for war.”

To be expected, Jon thought. She would be a fool to wait for us to come to her without preparing her armies. “The scouts report trenches, siege engines, catapults, and wildfire. Hundreds – if not thousands – of jars.”

Wildfire. The hallmark of his cursed bloodline, Jon mused bitterly.

_The Mad King was obsessed with it._ He recalled the tales of his youth, the deaths and destruction brought by the green substance. “How strong are their forces?” he asked.

“Five thousand foot, perhaps two thousand horse.” Quentyn answered slowly. “Is it not true that the Tyrells have pledged to support the Queen? Could we not bypass this blockade altogether and sail into the Blackwater against the Iron Fleet?”

Jon shook his head. “The Tyrell fleet was destroyed early on in the Queen's campaign, or so I am told. More over, the Iron Fleet has blockaded Oldtown meaning no ships left in the Reach can hope to reach us. This is the path we have to follow.”

“Unfortunate.” the Prince sighed. “So be it, then. Let us hope Gendry will bring success to our venture.”

* * *

Another knock at the door to the ramparts brought both men to face Maester Connors, holding up a scroll as he shuffled onto the stone floor. “Apologies, my lords. But a raven has arrived from Dragonstone – it is addressed to you, Lord Jon.”

Taking the scroll, Jon broke the seal and read it at once.

 

>  
> 
> _You are ordered to Dragonstone with all haste as per the Queen's command. Leave your forces at Storm's End and make for the fortress immediately._
> 
>  
> 
> _Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen_

 

Jon felt his heart beating rapidly as a sheen of sweat trickled down from his hair.

Noticing this, Prince Quentyn took the scroll and glanced at it. “Ill news, then.” he whispered, looking between Jon and the maester.

“The lords are due to begin arriving within two or three days,” Jon groaned. “I was planning to assist Gendry with making his case to them.”

“Leave him and make for Dragonstone at once.” Quentyn replied. “I will do what I can to help him. As I said, he is almost a kindred spirit despite the enmity between our Houses.”

Jon bit down on his tongue. Things were not going according to plan, and it worried him greatly.

As he descended the ramparts he said a silent prayer to his gods, his father's gods; the old gods of the forest, nameless and numerous as they were.

_Let me make it home to her, you old ones. Please._

* * *

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is my attempt to reason about 8x5 and Varys's decision. 
> 
> please note in this story Jon and Daenerys never had a romance; Jon did once feel something for her but they didn't do the "boatsex" or anything. She crushes on him but he cannot reciprocate. 
> 
> sorry if this sucks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments

Approaching the high walls of Dragonstone Jon felt at ease; he saw the camps of his men set up in chaotic but neat formations all around the fortress. He felt relieved that the ships carrying his host had been able to make the risky voyage, cutting around the watchful eyes of the Iron Fleet.

As he and his escort rode up the path to the great gate, the Northern soldiers milling about noticed his approach – many hailed him with shouts and whoops of encouragement as he brought the horse to a slow trot.

“Didn't expect to see you so soon, lad!” shouted a familiar voice.

Jon dismounted the horse and embraced Ser Davos in a tight hug. The man had become a close advisor in the time they had spent together; he could think of no other man better suited to the position of King's Hand – at least when he was a king.

“Urgent summons from Tyrion,” Jon said, breaking his hold and looking up to the gate. “Do you know what it is about?” He felt a sense of anxiety washing over him as the older man's lips went into a deep frown.

Davos turned to the camp and waved out over it. “First of all, let me say that we were able to make it here with no issue. It seems the Iron Fleet holds sway over the Blackwater Rush only.”

“Secondly – the news is grim. It seems the Queen's forces were ambushed on their approach. Several ships of the Iron Fleet launched a surprise attack; they sunk a few ships but...well, she lost another dragon, I'm afraid.” Davos finished with a shake of his head. “The green one. Shot into the sea, the Unsullied tell me.”

Jon felt the dread creeping back into his bones. _They are adapting,_ he thought. The Lannisters did not maintain their position as the most powerful House in Westeros by resting on their many laurels. _Cersei is bringing everything to bear and we must be prepared._

“The Iron Fleet?” he finally managed after a moment to collect himself.

“As I said, staying in the Blackwater Rush. They don't seem particularly interested in the island, Tyrion tells me.” Davos answered, looking back over his shoulder. “How is Gendry?”

Jon shrugged. “Settling well – he has called the stormlords to the castle to lay out our cause to them. I had hoped to be there when they arrived, to help plead our case but -”

“We were sorry to call you away, my lord.” another voice announced from behind Davos. Lord Varys approached the pair swiftly, his legs carrying him with surprising speed given he was not an athletic man of any sort.

“I do hate to be a bother, Ser Davos – but would you give us a moment so I may speak freely with Lord Snow?” he asked, tilting his head towards the Onion Knight.

Jon nodded. “Tell the men I will visit them when this is over. Talk with them; share their cookfires.”

* * *

 

The pair walked the winding path up to the castle itself in silence for a few steps before Varys began to speak. “Thankfully our ships – what we have left – have not been harassed by the ironmen. Thus, your forces were able to land without incident. I trust you were unharmed as well?”

Jon looked up to the castle where Drogon was flying in circles, roaring as the massive beast occasionally landed on the reinforced rooftop. “I had no idea things were this dire.” he said, pausing at the halfway point.

“The Queen is not taking things well, as you might expect.” Varys offered with a sigh, “she refuses food. Does not speak to anyone. Simply remains shut up inside either her chambers or that of the Painted Table.”

Having rode the dragon known as Rhaegal, Jon felt a sense of emptiness in his chest. He did not know the beast well, but had flown upon its back during the battle of Winterfell, raining fire down upon the dead and their endless horde.

A more apt comparison would be if he were to lose Ghost; a part of him would die with the direwolf. _Daenerys has lost another part of herself,_ he thought sadly.

“There must be someone she can talk to. Missandei, perhaps?” Jon suggested. The Naathi woman was one of her closest companions and friends, standing by her side since the earliest days of her time as the Mother of Dragons.

Varys shook his head. “She was taken by the Iron Fleet. I am afraid Cersei had her executed on the walls of King's Landing before our very eyes.”

Jon grimaced at the eunuch's words. “Then I should speak with her.”

“You worry for her. As do I – in fact, I worry for us all, my lord.” Varys gripped Jon's shoulder tightly, with strength that he did not know the man possessed. “The Queen has suffered two grievous losses in a matter of days – traumatic experiences that have drained her of will and fight. Yet I feel that in her melancholy her mind will...begin to rage, righteously so. But directed at the wrong targets...”

“....It could prove dangerous.” Jon finished for him. The stories of the Targaryen madness were not new to him; every-time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. The saying was ingrained in him since he was a child hearing Old Nan's nursery rhymes.

Even still, he knew that was he to lose faith it would only accelerate her descent into madness. “We must do what we can to support her, then. She is the Queen – and if we can maintain the anger at those who deserve it, it will go a long way to bringing this war to a swifter end.”

“I concur, but if...” Varys paused, his features taking on an anxious appearance. “...if the worst is to come to pass and she is no longer capable of sitting the Iron Throne, another must rule in her place.”

Raising a brow, Jon looked back towards the coast where he had landed, a brief smirk forming on his lips. _Damn you, Tyrion._ The dwarf was spreading the tale for all to hear, it would seem – as he expected.

“My place is in the North. I have zero interest in such speculations should the need arise, my lord.” Jon answered truthfully. His place was in Winterfell – with his family. With Sansa – the one he loves. _The one I fight for._

“I understand, my lord.” Varys continued, “but if I may be honest? I...as it stands now, I do not know how the Queen's coin will land. However, I...I am reasonably sure where yours has landed.”

Jon held up a hand, feeling the anger and sadness creeping into his being. “It does us no good to speculate about this now, my lord. The Queen remains herself – and so long as she has the comfort of a friend, I have no doubt she will recover from these setbacks.”

Varys nodded. “I agree, my lord. I simply wished to outline my thoughts on other possibilities.”

_Do you believe me able to be controlled_? Jon's mind whirred, Sansa's words of caution about the South echoing in his head. _Do you see me as a more malleable puppet then Daenerys? What is your angle here, my lord?_

Still it would do him no good to speculate on the eunuch's motives, even now.

_I have to believe the Queen will be reasonable, even in her grief. I will speak with her and see what I can do to assuage her._

Though in the back of his mind, Jon knew Varys was correct in his scenario; the madness could strike without warning, and she could decide to do something terrible – whatever it may be. Burn King's Landing? Burn the Stormlands? He did not know.

_I will ensure it does not come to pass._

* * *

 

The face Daenerys gave him was blank, her eyes sunken and hair dishevelled. “You received my summons. Good.” she said, almost as an afterthought.

Jon nodded. “Lord Baratheon is calling the lords of the Stormlands to meet with him, so that he may speak our case with them and theirs.” he said, tracing a hand over the Painted Table, “I believe given the shared hatreds we have for the Lannister, it will succeed -”

“I do not have love here.” she said, cutting him off. Rising to her feet, Daenerys approached Jon and continued to eye him, her gaze remaining blank and cold. “when I was in Essos liberating the slaves of the world, I had love. Now? I am a foreign invader. They fear me.”

_It was to be expected_ , Jon told himself. Westeros is not Essos – there was no slavery here, no chains to break. Small-folk may be pawns of the lords and ladies in their games, but their lives were their own to live, free of the lash and whip.

He knew her cause seemed just; she only wanted to build a better world – yet her idea of a better world was merely a replacement ruler. “They do not know you yet.” he offered with a smile. “The lords of Westeros did not know Aegon when he first began his efforts.”

“You fear me too.” she said, almost matter of factually. “I can see it in your eyes. You tread carefully, concealing the truth to avoid seeing me lash out.”

“Fear?” Jon replied, shaking his head. “No. I worry – given the setbacks you have suffered, I do not wish you to turn your anger upon the wrong people. Upon the innocents, who suffer under the yoke of House Lannister as it stands.”

Jon knew that war was war; innocents die. It was an unfortunate but necessary way of seeing a conflict through; but if there was anything to be done to minimize the deaths caused, it should be attempted at the very least; if only to build a better image when the dust clears.

Daenerys shook her head. “I have reached my hands out over Aegon's kingdom, offering peace and security to all. They only need kneel for their rightful queen. Yet they refuse, they mock, they scorn and they hesitate.”

“You have the support of the North, of Dorne, and soon of the Stormlands.” Jon countered, feeling the panic rising in his heart. “The Lannisters control King's Landing and little else.”

A laugh; one of mockery and derision escaped Daenerys's lips. “I have the North only because you have sworn me fealty. Your sis – no, cousin – Sansa undermines me at every turn. She says to wait, to allow my people to build their strength. It gives Cersei the chance to kill one of my children, the only children I will have – and take from me a dear friend.”

His body began to go cold as she spoke. “Sansa did not mean -” he tried to say.

“Mean what?” she snapped, “to delay my return? To see my children die? Perhaps not, but her disrespect and disobedience to me, her rightful Queen, it is...troubling, to say the least. More troubling is how you defend her.”

_To the end of my days,_ Jon thought. His mind flashed an image of her red hair, her smile and her warmth; the commanding Lady of Winterfell and the strong, determined and beautiful woman he loved.

“She is my family.” Jon said, regretting that almost at once.

“I am your family too, _nephew_.” Daenerys shot back, venom in her voice. With a deep sigh, she seated herself in the chair nearest the roaring fireplace, the embers flicking up into the air. “But I see how it is. I do. Alright, then – let it be fear.”

Jon exhaled softly, a chill running up his spine. “We can still win this, Daenerys. I have faith in you – in our cause.” he said, biting back the desperation building up in his voice. “Once Lord Baratheon raises the storm lords for us, we will be able to begin marching through the Kingswood and the Golden Company.” he continued, kneeling down before her and taking her hands.

“You will sit the Iron Throne and lead Westeros into a better world. I know you will.” he assured her with a smile.

Saying nothing a moment, Daenerys's face remained blank for a few agonizing seconds – but the hint of a smile crept onto her face. “Thank you, Jon. When this is over, I will see your service rewarded for all you have done.”

_Reward me by freeing the North_.

Rising to his feet, Jon bowed his head. “I should get some rest. With your leave, I will depart for Storm's End on the morrow to begin making plans.”

She nodded, looking back to the fire. “Rest well.”

* * *

 Varys shook his head, looking over the letters he had prepared.

 

> “ _...the lawful son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark and the true heir to the Iron Throne.”_

He wrestled inside himself if he should send the messages. Daenerys had begun her reign with the best of intentions; indeed, all of what he heard from the east painted her as a liberator, a woman who cared deeply for the people she freed. A ruler like that would be the best for the common people; they would prosper under her.

Yet she had shown herself to be in possession of the same traits that took Mad Aerys in his final years.

The burning of the food stores on the Gold Road, the execution of Randyll and Dickon Tarly – who would have made for valuable hostages if nothing else – and her antagonistic relationship with Winterfell were examples of such.

She had grown cold and harsh since returning to the land of her birth. She expected unflinching loyalty as her brother once did. Varys knew Viserys was even worse then she – openly arrogant, cruel and with an entitlement that would make Mad Aerys blush.

How could he look the people in the eye and say this was the woman to best protect and nurture them? What kind of a man – eunuch or not – would he be? She had built no bridges in her efforts to capture the Iron Throne; it had been her advisers who reached out and tried to secure alliances and fealty.

A pain grew inside his chest as he continued to wrestle with himself.

His discussion with Jon Snow had been illuminating. He clearly wanted nothing to do with the burdens of leadership, yet he had taken to the roles of Lord Commander and King in the North with diligence, skill and fairness.

While it was true that Daenerys had not shown overt fits of rage and malice, her mental state was clearly in decline. She saw conspiracies everywhere; his little birds told him that she believed Tyrion to be conspiring with Sansa Stark, of all people.

More so, her envy of Jon Snow was almost too real. Here was a man who inspired loyalty where he went, who lead on the front lines, and who genuinely showed care and compassion to the people beneath him.

_Eddard Stark, you were a greater liar then I gave you credit for._

It was no secret to him that if he were to send these letters – King's Landing, Riverrun, The Eyrie, Winterfell, Casterly Rock, Sunspear, Pyke, Highgarden and Oldtown – then the realm would learn the truth, and he would lose his life.

It was a small price to pay to ensure the right person sat the Iron Throne. A person who would not succumb to the madness that had taken Aerys or Viserys, or the other Targaryens before him that had shown themselves to be cruel despots instead of enlightened men.

He hoped Jon Snow would forgive him.

_Those who do not seek power are often the ones best suited to it._

He rolled up the last of the letters and affixed the seal. A knock at the door stirred him and he smiled sadly.

“You asked for me, Lord Varys?” Maester Pylos said as he entered. Dragonstone's young Maester had been in service for several years, stretching back to when Stannis Baratheon held this castle.

Varys handed the letters to him. “Please see these to King's Landing, Riverrun, The Eyrie, Winterfell, Casterly Rock, Sunspear, Pyke, Highgarden and Oldtown. With your fastest birds.” he said softly.

As the man bowed and shuffled out of the room, he removed his signet ring – something he wore for decades since his time in Lys with Illyrio – and placed it in the small bowl beside his desk.

All that was left to do was wait.

* * *

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i took the contents of the raven from the bits we saw in 8x05 that were visible 
> 
> again I hope you guys liked this!

“Wake up. The Queen demands your presence.”

The gruff voice stirred Jon from his rest, eyes fluttering open as he tried to push the fatigue out of his head. His sight fell upon the familiar uniform of an Unsullied standing before him, the man standing still as a statue.

“Are we under attack?” Jon mumbled, sitting up in the bed.

The Unsullied shook his head. “No. The Queen demands your presence.”

Groaning, Jon pulled himself to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. Looking out the window in his chambers, he saw the moon hanging overhead as the stars twinkled in the night. He had retired to his room not long after meeting with Daenerys, so it seemed that he was able to get some rest.

He nodded to his escort, buckling Longclaw to his belt. “Ready when you are.”

* * *

 

Jon's boots crunched through the sand as he moved towards the torches and the half-dozen figures surrounding them. Looking about quickly he saw it was Daenerys, Tyrion, Maester Pylos and one or two Unsullied guards.

His escort bowed to Daenerys at their approach. “My Queen, Jon Snow as you instructed.”

Right away Jon could see that whatever had caused this meeting to take place was ill tidings.

When he had last seen her, Daenerys seemed to be calmed down somewhat; her temper having faded and ebbed to where she was able to think and act reasonably in the face of the stresses and losses that had been inflicted upon her.

But now, Jon saw her face was alight with anger. She glared to him at his approach, her eyes displaying a visceral hatred that made him shudder uncomfortably.

“Your Grace,” he began with a bow of his own. “what has happened?”

She stared at him a moment before folding her hands in front of her. “It seems I was mistaken. You see, I assumed that it was Tyrion who was conspiring with my enemies – Cersei Lannister or Sansa Stark, most likely the latter – but all along it was you.”

His mouth grew dry as confusion took hold of Jon's mind. “I don't understand -” he tried to say before she silenced him with another hateful glare.

“Maester Pylos.” she gestured to the man, who moved swiftly into the torchlight. “Show Lord Snow what you presented to me.”

A hand held out a scroll which Jon took, unfurling it and beginning to read.

 

 

> _To The High Lords of Westeros:_
> 
> _Most believe the line of House Targaryen to be gone save for Daenerys Stormborn. This is false; Daenerys is not the only Targaryen left. Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna were married in secret before their untimely deaths._
> 
> _Their son lives still, hidden by Eddard Stark in plain sight as his bastard son, Jon Snow._
> 
> _Thus he is the true heir to the Iron Throne, and will need your support and fealty to ensure a just ruler takes the place of the Lannister who now claims our Seven Kingdoms._
> 
> _-Lord Varys”_

 

A chill crept up Jon's spine as he finished the letter, his confusion now replaced with anger.

_Damn you, eunuch! You stood there and lied to me about your intentions all this time._

“It seems you were busy.” Daenerys spat, “A copy of this letter was sent to every major castle in Westeros. King's Landing, Sunspear, Highgarden, Oldtown, The Eyrie, Casterly Rock and Storm's End. I am only fortunate that Maester Pylos here had the foresight to read the last raven meant for Winterfell.”

“This...Your Grace, it was not my doing.” Jon stammered, sweat running down his forehead. “I can promise you...this -”

She jabbed a finger into Jon's chest. “Your promises mean nothing to me! You wanted division and confusion, and so now you have it. The whole realm will know of your secret by sunrise – and your undermining of my claim, my birthright will be complete.”

* * *

A trio of footsteps echoed across the sand, drawing the pair's attention.

“Lord Jon was blameless in this, Your Grace.” came Varys's voice as he entered the torchlight, escorted and bound in manacles by Grey Worm. “It was I who sent these letters without his knowledge.”

Tyrion – who had remained uncomfortably silent as this exchange took place – looked to Varys with anger. “Why? Why would you risk everything for – for this?” he asked, his anger mixed with incredulity. “I know you to be a plotter, a schemer – but this is so brazenly treason that it defies you.”

Varys took his place in the centre of the torches and smiled sadly towards him. “My part in this has come to an end, old friend. I have seen what our Queen means to do – how many will suffer when she rains fire and blood down upon King's Landing.”

“You know NOTHING of my plans.” Daenerys growled, rounding on the eunuch. “You, the schemer who plotted against my father, against my brother – and now against me. You and that bitch in Winterfell seek to unmake my claim, my birthright. And for what? Because of your delusions about me?”

Jon flinched at her anger, more importantly at her reference to Sansa as _that bitch in Winterfell._ It was clear that this was the final straw in her feelings toward his family – his real family – and he would need to be extremely careful in how things proceeded from now on.

“I bear you no ill will, Maester Pylos.” he replied, looking to the ashen-faced maester. “You were merely doing your duty.”

Turning his gaze to Daenerys, Varys kept his calm demeanour as he spoke. “Your Grace, I have watched you since your return. Supported you – because I believed, truly that you would be the best ruler for the people. Yet now, I see I was mistaken.

Your desire for the Throne has blinded you to the plight of those around you. You speak so passionately of how you wish to break the wheel, but I believe that is no longer the case. You do not wish to stop the cycle of death, war, oppression and suffering that the people of our land have endured – you merely wish to _become_ the wheel.”

“Lord Varys – I, Daenerys Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals, The Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, The Breaker of Chains do sentence you to die.” Daenerys proclaimed as Drogon crashed down behind her, causing Jon to stumble to the side from the force of the impact.

“Have you anything else to say?” she spat.

Varys looked to Jon, a sad smile crossing his lips. “I urge you to consider my words, Lord Jon. You are the future that the Seven Kingdoms needs – one way or another. I will give my regards to your father...to both of them.”

Jon found he could not meet his gaze. “Your Grace,” he whispered, “is this necessary -” he tried to say.

“You will be silent unless you wish to join him!” Daenerys snapped. Her gaze returned to Varys who stood impassively as he awaited his fate.

“Dracarys.”

* * *

 

Even in the Painted Table Chamber, Jon could not shake the smell of burning flesh from his nostrils.

“Why would he do this?” Tyrion asked, slumped in one of the chairs. “This...this will only cause chaos that only my sister will benefit from.”

Jon said nothing; what could he say? _You are the future that the Seven Kingdoms needs, one way or another._ Here was a man – a mysterious and enigmatic one – sacrificing his life to see the truth behind his identity spread far and wide.

“I don't know.” he said, moving away from the window. Even near the roaring fireplace the smell continued to persist. “but I had no part in it. The Queen must know that.”

Tyrion looked at him and nodded. “She does. You...you would not do such a thing. I vouched for you with her when she brought this news to me – and will continue to do so if she questions your loyalty any further.”

A weary sigh escaped his lips as the dwarf looked to the map. “So...we should go over your plan once again. At the very least...to help take our mind off what just transpired, I think.”

Thankful for a distraction – of any kind, really – Jon took a seat across from Tyrion. “We know from our scouts that the Golden Company has dug trenches and set up barricades and catapults along the Kingsroad leading into the Kingswood. We will have to dislodge these trenches and barricades to have any hope of the Martell and Baratheon forces reaching the gates.”

“While you battle the Company there -” Tyrion moved his hand to the western edge of King's Landing.

“...the Northern armies will join with the remainder of the Unsullied and Dothraki and make camp there, under Ser Davos's command until I return.” Jon finished. It was a better plan to split their forces now, allowing at least a small force to hold a beach-landing far enough away from the Iron Fleet to allow for swift travel.

“Do you think that Gendry will succeed in getting the Baratheon levies to fight with us?” Tyrion asked again, drumming his fingers on the table. “Especially now, given what news has already flown out of here.”

Jon nodded, slumping slightly in the chair. _That will complicate things._ “When I return to Storm's End I will set things right. My thoughts are that the Storm Lords hate Cersei more then they hated Rhaegar Targaryen. Robert Baratheon was beloved by most of the lords – and it was Cersei who killed him, or so they believe.”

Nodding, Tyrion said nothing a moment, letting the silence linger. “How do you think things will go with Sansa?” he said finally.

_The Queen despises her. How could it go?_

Jon thought of her, the Lady of Winterfell. The survivor. The Wolf Queen herself – at least, if Jon had his way. He loved her more then he did anything or anyone else in this world. Everything he did, every decision he made to fight with Daenerys was all for her.

_For Arya and Bran. For Robb and Rickon. For Father and even for Lady Catelyn._

“I...I just hope that when this is over and she sits the Iron Throne, she will understand and appreciate that the North helped her to get there.” Jon said, the smell of burning flesh finally ebbing, to be replaced by the faint scent of lemon.

“I mean about you and her.” Tyrion said, his voice barely audible. “The Queen will not be pleased to know of your...relationship.”

Jon had already thought of that. Yet he could not find an answer that would satisfy anyone at this point. His mind was still wracked by the image of dragon fire consuming Varys and Daenerys's unleashed rage.

“I don't have an answer for you yet.” he said, rising to his feet. “I should make ready to depart for Storm's End. We have a lot of planning to do.”

“One last thing.” Tyrion said as Jon reached the doorway. “The Queen has said she plans to 'reevaluate' the structure of the North after the war is won. I do not know what she means, given you have sworn fealty to her as Warden, but – need I say more?”

He could say nothing when Daenerys referred to her as a bitch, nor could he speak out without fear of being the next to be consumed by flame. Yet it would be a cold day in the seventh hell before he allowed any harm to come to Sansa.

_I will not see dragon fire consume Winterfell. Not now, not ever._

* * *

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I included some houses from the crownlands sworn to dragonstone as well because of how close it and storm's end are geographically

As Jon reached the drawbridge leading into Storm's End, he could not help but notice the myriad banners flying in the fields all around the castle on his approach. More then the Dornish were there now; it would seem that Gendry's call to the Stormlands had borne some fruit.

He saw swordfish, sea-horses, sigils of wheat and hanged men. He saw falcons and suns and many banners he did not recognize. It had likely been an easy decision for these lords and ladies to travel here, he mused as the bridge lowered.

The promise of revenge against the woman who murdered their beloved king was a sweet enough offer on its own.

Yet even as he entered the castle's outer walls Jon saw the various servants and soldiers about the castle eyeing him differently. Some gaped at him with slack jaws and wide eyes while others muttered in groups, their gazes far less kind or reverent.

He recalled that Varys had sent ravens to the major seats of power in the Seven Kingdoms, including Storm's End. Word spreads fast, he knew from his childhood days in Winterfell. The lords would find out and the men-at-arms attending them would, and from there the news would spread all the way down so that even the lowest wastrel shovelling shit in the stables would know.

It changes nothing, Jon thought to himself as he walked through the halls towards the lord's seat. The murmur of discussion greeted him as he drew closer to those great double doors, with some voices calm and collected while others shouted until hoarse.

Maester Connors was there to greet him, offering a gentle bow. “Welcome back, Lord Jon.” he said softly, his voice carrying gently through the hall. “Lord Gendry and the others have awaited your return with interest, I must say.”

“I am sure they have.” Jon replied, unbuckling his sword belt. “What news of the talks? Has Gendry made any head way in convincing them to rally to us?”

Connors stepped closer to him, the metal of his chain jingling slightly. “So far the bulk of the lords seem amenable to revenge against House Lannister, but they remain skeptical of bending the knee to a Targaryen monarch.”

Nodding, Jon considered the man's words. Their caution was to be expected; House Targaryen was little loved here in the Stormlands, and with good reason; the last Targaryen monarch had been a madman who gained sadistic pleasure from executions with wildfire.

_And the crown prince ran away with their lord's bride to be,_ he thought sourly.

He would need to convince them that Daenerys's cause was worth fighting for; that she was a monarch worth fighting for – even though his doubts had come roaring to the surface since her display with Varys.

_She has good intentions,_ Jon reasoned. _She wants to build a better world – one free of those of base cruelties like the Lannisters._ More over, how else would Cersei Lannister's reign be toppled if not by Daenerys and her armies?

The Storm Lords knew they could not fight this war alone. Divided, they would fall like wheat to a scythe. Politicking about knee bending could – no, must – wait until the war was over. Jon looked ill-forward to that, especially given Daenerys's wild fantasies about Sansa.

“Let's get this over with.” he said and threw the doors open.

* * *

 

Gendry sat in the lord's chair as per his right, with Prince Quentyn standing at his side. Beneath them in the hall stood a dozen or so of the Storm Lords; Jon saw men and women, young and old – he could not recognize their domains so much as they were just faces.

They turned to face him as their eyes – a myriad of colours – studied how he looked, how he dressed and how he comported himself. _Searching for weakness,_ Jon mused to himself.

“Lord Jon – we are grateful for your return!” Prince Quentyn called out, gesturing to the crowd. “It has been some time since we began talks with the Storm Lords here, and they remain...recalcitrant about resuming the war. We hoped you would be able to assist us.”

Jon stepped closer to them, the crowd parting as he walked to the front, turning on his heel to face them. “Maester Connors has advised me of this, Prince Quentyn. I thank you none the less for your observation.” he said, folding his hands behind his back.

“What we are skeptical of is the demand by a Baratheon, none the less to bend the knee to a Targaryen.” one of the Lords – an older man with greying features – said, shaking his head. “Why should we rush to fight under the banner of the dragons once more when the land and people still bear the scars from the last one?”

“Without them we have no chance of justice!” shouted a young man with a swordfish sewn into his breast. “The rebellion is twenty years over while the evils of the Lannister witch who calls herself our Queen are raw and real now.”

That brought a scoff from the older lord. “Easy for you to say, Bar Emmon – you were not even a thought in your father's head when this transpired.”

Jon let them bicker as he studied their faces. They are frightened and unsure – that much was easy to see. “Has the false Queen made offers or demands of you?” he asked, a probing question to see how their thoughts were.

“Aye, they have!” the older lord shouted once more. “She sends ravens demanding fealty – but before long I hear of her soldiers pillaging towns in both the crownlands and here. And those mercenaries rampage about without a second thought.”

A younger, well built man spoke next with a nod of his head. “What Lord Trant says is true,” he said, matter of factually. “In addition, this blockade the Golden Company has established refuses entry or exit to almost anyone. Merchants, farmers, even the silent sisters. It appears the Queen is looking to starve us out.”

“Our ships are still able to travel, Buckler.” a lord with platinum-coloured hair intoned. “It seems the ironmen manning her fleets are not interested in fighting with us directly.”

Jon had heard enough. “If the Queen wishes to starve you out, my lord – she will succeed. I know your houses have all suffered losses – fighting for Stannis Baratheon as he met his end outside the gates of Winterfell – and now you are forced to live in fear of King's Landing and the armies of the Westerlands that Cersei has at her disposal.”

“I also understand your skepticism about supporting a Targaryen ruler. However – I must ask you this simple question, my lords and ladies – if not Daenerys, who will challenge the might of King's Landing directly?” he asked, looking to each lord and lady individually. “All of us here cannot agree upon the facts of atrocity or history, let alone the losses of war.”

Some of the lords looked away or down at the carpet in shame, Jon's words resonating with them. “How do we know she will rule wisely?” a woman at the front of the gathering asked.

Gendry stood up from his seat. “Lord Jon and I have fought beside the Queen since her time in the North. She has made good and wise decisions in regards to battle and strategy. She hasn't shown any sign of madness, either. Just a desire for justice the same as you lot.” he said, nodding to Jon.

“The eunuch's raven seems to indicate you think otherwise, my lord.” another voice sneered from the right.

Jon shook his head. “Let me be clear that the ravens sent by Lord Varys were done with no knowledge of myself. Do you, my lord, think I am stupid or foolish enough to dispatch such words to the major seats of power while a war for the Throne itself wages? I would be splitting the forces of Queen Daenerys down the middle for no reason but my own personal benefit. Then, Cersei and the Lannisters would reap the rewards of that split.”

“Consider this – given the history of violence and brutality that Cersei Lannister possesses, do you think she will leave you in peace even if you do not aid us or submit to her?” He looked about the room, tapping his hands together behind his back. “No. You represent Robert Baratheon – a man she despised more then any, for why else would she conspire to kill him? She showed him no mercy, yet you think she will show you any?”

He raised his hands up as if holding something in each one. “Your two choices. The first is justice -” he indicated the left hand, “-and a chance to see some measure of closure for the fathers, sons, brothers and uncles murdered and the mothers, daughters, aunts and sisters raped and defiled -” he indicated the right, “-or submission to a fate even you may not be able to predict.”

* * *

The room was silent as the gathered digested Jon's words. “Do not think this a fight of Targaryen versus Lannister. Think of it as a fight for justice against injustice.” he finished, moving to the right of the lord's seat next to Gendry.

His stomach was in knots. _I do hope they make the right choice_ , he thought nervously.

It was a gamble to appeal to their sense of loss and anger towards the Lannisters, but given the endless bickering that would ensure from trying to convince them to submit to Daenerys, it was far better to gain a temporary ally with whom you share a common goal then sour them permanently.

As the lords whispered among themselves, Jon felt his palms growing sweaty.

_All lords are proud_ , he thought. They would mislike his words against them, an insult to their pride. With luck, it would lead to their support being guaranteed – but if not, they would simply bar their gates and wait for the war to conclude.

It was only when the various lords dropped to one knee and pledged their swords to Lord Baratheon that Jon exhaled.

Now, the war could begin on the battlefield proper – and he was one step closer to returning home.

* * *

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so in the books jon connington contracts greyscale on one of his hands(not sure which) so I made a homage to it here I hope you guys enjoy

From the top of the makeshift barricade, Jon Connington watched as the soldiers of the Golden Company drilled, rehearsing their formations, sword and spear-play and defensive techniques while smallfolk from King's Landing finished fortifying the trenches running the length of the kingsroad.

“Is it wise to give me so many of our men, Harry?” he asked.

Harry Strickland – the commander of the Golden Company – stood at his side, impassively watching the display play out before him. Resplendent in his golden armour, he looked the part of a proper company general, Jon mused.

_About time._ When Jon had first joined the Company Harry had been coarse and uncouth; yet their time in various wars together had seen him mature – and pay more attention to personal hygiene, to his great relief.

“Not to worry Jon,” Strickland said, folding his hands behind his back. “our scouts report the bulk of the enemy force is coming up the kingsroad. The smaller number – Northmen and the dragon queen's Dothraki and Unsullied – are encamped near the city proper.”

Jon was still skeptical. “This simply feels...wrong. Why would she deploy her soldiers in such a fashion?” It seemed almost haphazard, as though she had not thought her own strategy to fruition.

While the situation did benefit the Golden Company, it still felt ill at ease for Jon.

Harry smiled, patting Jon on the shoulder. “Relax. You're overthinking this – you have to remember that she is a young girl playing at the ways of war. It is likely she doesn't have the strategy or mind for waging such a campaign. We've read the reports – she is used to liberating slaves, not conquering a people. It will, sadly, be her downfall.”

* * *

Around them, the last of the scorpions were being assembled. Jon had ordered them set up at the barricades through the kingswood, ensuring that the southern approach to the city was protected from dragon attack.

“Oh, I should tell you - “ Strickland suddenly added, “ - I am giving you command of most of our horse. I think they would be better suited for running ambushes on the enemy as they try to take the trenches.”

“Shall I leave you with nothing?” Jon retorted. “The Lannisters have their men, but most of them barely know how to hold a sword.”

His hatred of House Lannister was well known; even now, twenty years after Robert's Rebellion, Jon still felt nothing but contempt for that wretched family. It was an almost bitter irony that he found himself working to defend Tywin's daughter as she attempted to fend off an invasion from Aerys's last living child.

“Now Jon, you think too ill of our employers.” Harry quipped. “But if you must know, I am keeping two thousand spears back in the city with me. The Northern host to the west barely numbers some five hundred, so when the battle begins proper I will ride out with our veterans and crush them without much opposition.”

The major opposition was facing Jon's command, of course. The scouts report the might of Dorne and the Stormlands had declared for House Targaryen – and now some ten thousand men were marching towards the Kingswood with all haste.

Harry had given him fifteen thousand spears – a majority of the Company's men – and instructed him to block their approach at all costs. Jon had arrayed the resources he had to a series of trenches and barricades, digging pit traps and other hazards in the woods around them.

Every major post had three catapults and an ample supply of wildfire, although Jon was loath to use it lest he set the entire forest aflame.

Jon nodded. “I want to send some of our skirmishers into the woods to harass them as they approach. Make them angry when they reach the first trench line. When they are angry, they will make mistakes. Costly ones.”

“I've been speaking with the Queen regarding the commanders – the ones to watch are the Dornish two. Uller and Yronwood – both of them are men with decades of experience in arms and warfare.” Strickland observed, “though Jon Snow is known to be a deadly swordsman, so if you mean to engage him...tread lightly, old friend.”

Jon felt anger building inside him.

King's Landing had been abuzz with the ravens sent from Dragonstone, proclaiming the bastard son of Eddard Stark was truly the son of Rhaegar Tagaryen and Lyanna Stark and heir to the Iron Throne.

That chapter in his life had been one of pain and agony; he had been Rhaegar's friend, his constant companion and truest supporter – he was the greatest king the realm never knew. _I should have been with him on the Trident,_ he told himself. _I should have died with him._

If the claims made were true – why did Rhaegar not tell him? Jon would have supported his prince no matter what. _I would have gone to the ends of the earth for you._

Why was such a great man twenty years dead, the realm he was meant to rule fractured and broken and he consigned to being employed by the wretched Lannisters?

* * *

 Still – Jon was a company man. He had served the Golden Company long enough that any feelings he once had for House Targaryen were gone and buried. _They died with Rhaegar – I do not know Aerys's daughter or this supposed secret child._

“Let them come, Harry.” Jon said after a pause. “What is our motto? 'beneath the gold, the bitter steel'. I will serve them steel no matter who they may proclaim to be.”

Around them the peasants drafted into service from the various hamlets in the wood along with those from the capital continued their work, labouring to prepare the first of the barricades for the arrival of the enemy. “I know you will.” Harry said, turning to the ladder back to the ground. “I should return to the capital in case our employer has any more thoughts on a successful defence.”

“I wish we'd brought the fucking elephants.” Jon mumbled. It would have made this child's play.

Laughing as he climbed down, Strickland looked up at him. “The ironborn weren't willing to spend the coin to outfit their ships. So, we do this the old fashioned way, Jon. I've already sent the horse towards us; they should be here before the sun comes up in the morrow.”

Jon turned back to his observation, pulling his metal hand from its pouch at his side. Slowly he screwed it into position, the metal grating against his stump with every twist. Each day he cursed the Dothraki warrior who'd hacked his real one off some five years prior.

Still, the permanently clenched metal fist made holding a shield easier.

_It'll be good to get some practice,_ he mused. _Come, Jon Snow – let's see how skilled you really are._

* * *

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> probably my last chapter for a few days have to go back to work
> 
> sorry about the lack of jonsa but I promise Jon is always thinking of her as seen below

Battle for Jon had never been about pleasure; some men found a thrill in killing and violence, the feeling of hacking apart an enemy and his death cries, but Jon had never found it an appealing skill. Even against enemies such as those from House Bolton or the wildlings under Mance Rayder, it was always an occasion to dread.

Especially now as the joint Martell-Baratheon forces crashed against the Golden Company defenders, his thoughts turned north towards home. To where Sansa and Ghost, Arya and Bran waited for him. Towards those he loved – not to those he hated that waited in the capital.

_Sansa_ , he thought. _I will survive to return to you. I promise._

Jon pivoted, his shield blocking the swing from an attacking mercenary before he ran the man through with Longclaw. Around him the battle was joined in full; swords, spears, maces and axes clashed and men died all around.

His shield smashed into the face of another mercenary as he rushed him, driving his blade into the man's upper chest – where his breastplate offered no protection.

For him, the events of the last year had been a blur of constant chaos – war, fighting, rough and haggard attempts at diplomacy and more fighting. Yet now he moved with purpose; the same purpose he felt when he fought to reclaim Winterfell.

_Sansa. I fight for her._

* * *

When this conflict was over and he was safely back home, he planned to marry her. A simple ceremony in the Godswood, he thought. To unite our hearts as one before the old gods – that is, if she was able to go through with such a thing.

The horrors inflicted upon her by Ramsay Bolton still were hot in his mind, and a surge of anger propelled him forward as he hacked off the end of a spear from his newest attacker, following through with a savage slash to the man's unprotected thigh that severed his leg.

Even though the sadistic bastard was dead and gone, his legacy remained in the trauma he inflicted upon such a beautiful soul. Jon threw himself forward with a savage cry, running through the leather tunic worn by a Lannister soldier as though it was not there.

_I have to focus on the battle_ , he told himself.

If he did not, he would make a mistake – and even the smallest mistake would cost a man his life on the field of battle. He had been dead once, and it was an experience he desperately sought to avoid.

This attack was a feint against the enemy lines; he'd committed the bulk of their foot to launch a strike against the first of the enemy positions while their horse under the command of Lord Yronwood were circling around to hopefully flank them.

So far, most of the defenders had been spear-men, their lines forming a thick wall that had been difficult for their forces to breach – yet with persistence their shield wall had paid off, the wall of spears breaking after sustained push where Jon now fought.

Arrows zipped past him and into the bodies of both friend and foe alike, and Jon quickly raised his shield in anticipation.

He fought for a future where Sansa did not have to fear. Where she – the iron-willed Lady of Winterfell – could live in peace away from tyrants and bastards and evil men and women alike. Which in its own way was a sad irony, given who Jon now fought under the command of.

_Daenerys._ His stomach soured at the thought of her name.

_I have to tread softly_ – it had been the first thing he'd learned upon meeting her.

He had desperately tried to tell himself that she genuinely believed in building a better world, a world free of tyrants and the evils of suffering for all – but after the displays of her anger and paranoia he'd seen in the last few weeks, it was difficult to see where she would be any different then that of House Lannister.

Even still, he had to fight. Jon knew Cersei would never allow the North its freedom – the woman still blamed Sansa for the death of Joffrey.

He blocked a flurry of blows from another attacker before catching the man's elbow which wore no armour, severing the arm clean off.

So, Daenerys it was. He knew that it was a risk – a dangerous risk – to gamble the freedom of the North upon her success in taking the Iron Throne, but anything was possible given the speed and scale of the campaign they now waged.

Were she to fall in battle – it would be up to those that remained to determine the future of the whole of Westeros. _It should be yours_ , the dragon whispered in his mind again as he fought onward, the enemy lines beginning to crumble under the onslaught. _You have the stronger claim – reach out and take it._

* * *

_That damned voice again._

It had only grown stronger since Varys had sent out his ravens and the land would know of the truth behind his parentage. Although a part of him hoped that the news would be greeted with skepticism and denial by the lords of the Seven Kingdoms – he would rather be ridiculed then looked to for ruler-ship.

_I am no King,_ he told the dragon. Its ferocity and anger ebbed inside of him, the smell of blood and carnage around only making it grow stronger and more difficult to ignore. He'd never wanted to lead anything – yet he'd been forced to take command of both the Night's Watch and the North.

_You are born for this,_ the dragon roared. _Do not shirk from what must be. She is not fit to rule._

The galloping of hoof beats drew his attention back – the allied horse had arrived, swiftly riding around the barricades and spike traps set up around the battlefield.

“FORWARD!” Jon cried, the men around him letting out an exultant cheer as they fought with renewed fury.

Even if she was not meant to rule, Jon told himself, it did not mean that he was. The thought was treason in his mind – he already believed the woman he'd pledged his sword was an unfit ruler – but what else was there? Bend the knee to Cersei Lannister? The thought made bile appear in his throat.

_I will have to tread softly. For Sansa's sake._ Daenerys believed that she was conspiring against her to seat Jon on the throne, but Jon knew that she only wanted to see the people of the North safe from the chaos brought by this new war.

_She is the leader the realm needs, not me._ Jon thought of Sansa as the ruler to sit the Iron Throne – strong, determined, kind yet firm and inspirational to those around her. She is everything a monarch needs to be.

But the thought of her returning to King's Landing was anathema, he knew. She had suffered there at the hands of Joffrey and his wretched family since the day they hacked off their father's head. Abused both physically and mentally while under the constant threat of death from a castle full of scheming liars willing to sell her for a chance at power.

He thought of their lovemaking now, the images stirring his cock to life – much to his embarrassment – as he hacked and slashed his way across the field. His men had reached the trenches and were piling into them, catching the enemy defenders off guard as they fell back in disarray.

It was tender; done with love and trust in heart from him and her alike, not with haste and violence like with Ramsay. His name made Jon launch himself into one of the defenders, slashing the man's throat with enough force that it nearly severed his head, spraying hot blood onto his face.

* * *

 

_Rip, tear. Kill!_ The dragon raged at him now, the battle turning decisively in their favour.

_DESTROY THEM!_ It howled as Jon's whole body felt energized with heat.

_ The battle rage.  _

Old Ser Rodrik had told him and Robb all about it when they were children – how during a battle a man would feel the enjoyment of killing – and keep killing until he felt nothing but an orgasmic bliss from it. His mind would shatter then, and all he would think of was the next kill and the one after that and so on.

Jon had not felt it before, even during the battle against the Boltons. He'd fought with a cold fury, rage, yes, but he'd not felt this sensation – this overwhelming urge to kill and slaughter.

He drove his sword through the throat of a fleeing Golden Company warrior, sending the man into the dirt. He thrust forward and hacked violently at the shield of a Lannister soldier, the fury of his blows causing the man to drop his guard ever so slightly – enough so that he was able to hack off his shield arm.

_This is not me,_ he tried desperately to tell himself. _This is not me. This is not me!_

_Sansa. Winterfell. Home. Love. A free North._

He repeated these mantras in his head even as he ran out of the trench, his men driving off the last of the defenders. A ragged cheer went up around him as the day was carried, the surviving defenders retreating up the kingsroad.

Suddenly his body ached and screamed with exhaustion and Jon fell to one knee. His face and neck were coated in blood not belonging to him, and his boots were stained with gore. The heat in his body was extinguished with a swift and shocking rush as though someone had poured cold water over his head.

* * *

“Well, we won.” panted a familiar voice from beside him.

Jon looked up to see Gendry, his face coated in sweat as he leaned on his war-hammer for support. His armour was also coated in blood, including the antlered stag-helm he'd built before they marched; Jon swore he saw bits of brain and skull on the edge of his weapon.

“One down,” Jon gasped out, staggering to his feet. “but don't count them out just yet.”

_One step closer to holding you in my arms again, sweet girl. One step closer._

* * *

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so i imagine that Jon Connington would after 20 years of service in the golden company have picked up a wide variety of sword and combat skills so hence why he was able to get the upper hand. sorry if my battle scenes suck though!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love comments

The small village was called Fletcher's Haven, so the few small-folk that remained had told them. Consisting of roughly a dozen homes, a medium-sized stable and an inn, the buildings had largely been abandoned after the Golden Company had conscripted the people living there for the war effort.

It was a perfect place for the forces under Jon's command to make camp and rest, if only briefly.

“We cannot rest here for long,” he insisted, moving some of the square-shaped markers towards the row of spear and stag markers. “else we only invite further ambushes. I realize that the men are tired – we all are I think – but we've still to reach the gates of King's Landing.”

Yet there was no rest for him – Jon and the lords needed to plan the next attacks on the barricades and outposts blocking their approach to the city. “The surrounding woods are littered with pit traps and the like, as the scouts have confirmed.”

Lord Harman Uller – a gruff, sour-faced older Dornish noble – pushed some of the spear markers forward. “Then I say we send our spears ahead to probe the defences.” he said simply, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “All we must do is continue to bloody their nose and eventually they will flee back to the Lannister bitch with their tails tucked between their legs.”

_Not likely._ Jon knew of the Golden Company's resolve from tales told in the North.

They had never broken a contract, ever – and they were well known for their steadfast determination and stubborn iron will. They were also reinforced with a smattering of Lannister troops as proven by the last battle.

As the discussion around him resumed – each lord offering their own tactic or strategy – Jon found his headache had returned. It had struck him not long after arriving here, owing to the intensity of the battle he'd taken part in.

A wave of guilt had washed over him following the passing of the battle rage; it was a savage blood lust that had almost claimed him; something he'd heard of in tales from seasoned warriors; even his lord father had mentioned seeing it claim better men during Robert's Rebellion.

He would be glad when the Lannisters were defeated; though he did not look forward to the negotiations in regard to securing the North's independence. Given Daenerys's constant setbacks – in addition to the news of his birth now spread to the Seven Kingdoms – it would make things even more painful than they were as it stood.

It was a queer feeling – to be so far from home yet again – and it only grew stronger the closer Jon got to King's Landing. Perhaps it was knowing the battle to come? Or perhaps it was due to the city being a place of horrors for Sansa? Where she'd endured the abuse and mental torture at the hands of the sadistic Joffrey Baratheon for so long.

“I believe Lord Jon is correct.” added Prince Quentyn, who while being no fighter had a keen sense of tactics and strategy. “Should we fail to press our advance now, we will find the roads further blocked or entrapped when we do.”

Jon held up a hand. “We should get some rest and -”

His statement was interrupted by the mournful howl of a warhorn.

_Battle!_

* * *

Drawing Longclaw Jon grabbed for his shield and made for the door, forcing his way outside in a combat stance alongside Lord Harman and a few other lords he did not recognize.

Some of the buildings in the village were now aflame, with panicking soldiers scrambling to their weapons and shields. Riders galloped around them, cutting down those who were too slow in their efforts.

From the outskirts Jon saw and heard the arrows thudding into flesh and wood alike as a line of attackers lobbed spears towards the encampments, ducking back into the treeline as the sentries returned fire with their own arrows.

“Get Prince Quentyn to safety!” he barked as the Princes' honour guard gathered about him, their spears drawn and in a square formation around him. “They are lighting the buildings! Move to the camps!”

Jon rushed out into the village square, where some of the enemy riders were wheeling to launch another charge. As he watched they lobbed torches into another home, the thatched roof lighting up in a quickening blaze.

Around him, the men had finally gotten into shield-wall formations and spear-wedges and were in the process of driving back some of the horses. Their own cavalry was frantically evacuating the stable building as the roof began to burn.

A rider galloped up to Jon, swinging his blade down at him as he rode by. Deflecting the blow with his shield – causing his arm to briefly go numb from the impact- he rushed off to where the sounds of the fiercest fighting was.

He drove his blade through the gut of a riderless attacker who charged him with a spear, sending the man into the dirt as he dodged his sloppy thrust. “GET INTO FORMATIONS!” Jon shouted to the various Baratheon-Martell men around him who scrambled to find both cover and allies in the chaos.

“I've been looking for you, Lord Jon.” a deep voice bellowed from behind him.

* * *

 

The man who sat atop a horse before him was a well-built and leathery-faced man, clean shaven with a wide variety of scars all over his face. He wore no helmet – something Jon thought was foolish – but he held his blade towards him with his left hand. His right hand wore a brass glove and clutched a shield; not the normal shield of the Golden Company but one of red and white, with symbols he could not see well from the distance.

Dismounting, the man took a few steps toward him as the battle raged about. His armour – coloured the same as the rest of the mercenaries – was worn and dented in some places. A veteran warrior, Jon thought as he took up a defensive stance.

“Come then, wolf prince. I wish to see your skills for myself.” he saluted with his blade and advanced forward.

For a sturdy attacker as he was, the mystery warrior moved with surprising speed as Jon quickly blocked the first of his blows. Forced backward a few steps he was quick to counter, advancing forward with a feinted overhand slash – one his foe easily blocked even as he tried to direct his blade towards his groin.

Using his shield – Jon took note of the two gryphons adorning it – the attacker slammed it into Jon's own, causing his teeth to rattle uncomfortably as his upper body shook with pain from the force of the impact.

His aggressive power threatened to overwhelm Jon as he desperately countered with parries and blocks of his own, digging his heels into the dirt in an attempt to remain on his feet as he hacked and slashed with abandon in an attempt to throw the man off-balance.

The man's sword arm sailed past his left side as Jon was able to avoid the blow, allowing him to slam his shield into the man's upper body; the blow was stopped by the armour he wore but it was enough to stagger him, allowing Jon to go on the offensive, raining overhead blows on the stunned man as he struggled to block them in time.

It seemed exhaustion was getting the best of him; just a little longer and he would be defeated -

* * *

A sharp pain took Jon in the ribs as he felt something hard connect with his stomach. The air felt as though it was sucked completely from his lungs as he gasped out, nearly doubling over from the impact of the blow.

His attacker stood up, raising his shield arm to him. “A brass hand does have its uses.” he said simply.

Catching his breath, Jon used the last of his energy and adrenaline to rise to his feet a he resumed his combat stance. He felt the pain in his very lungs as he coughed, a bit of blood staining his lips as he did so. “You fight well.” he wheezed, “Jon Connington, I presume.”

That drew a smile – not mocking or sarcastic, Jon noted – from the man. “I wanted to take the measure of you, wolf prince. Your combat style is impressive, as I expected it to be. But even with the skills you have, I will stop you from reaching the capital as my employer demands.”

Readying himself for the fight, Jon watched as Connington turned around and walked toward his horse. “We will meet again, Jon Snow. But not here – as you can see, my work is done.” he nodded to the village around him and galloped off.

* * *

 

Perplexed, Jon dropped to one knee as he wheezed further. Looking from the battle he saw that all of the structures – homes, inn and stables – were either fully engulfed or nearly consumed by flame. As the heat grew, he saw the Company riders moving for the woods as they galloped off.

“Lord Jon!” a voice shouted as Prince Quentyn and his honour guard approached him. “Help him!” the Prince ordered, and two of his guard grasped Jon under their arms and helped him to his feet, steadying him as he took a few unsteady breaths.

Looking around the village, the Dornishman sighed. “It looks as though Connington got the better of us here. As I thought he would – the fools, if we had only moved sooner.” he grumbled, his face still knotted with concern. “Are you alright?”

Nodding, Jon wiped at his mouth. “Fought him. He got me in the stomach with his...his brass hand.”

“Most of the outskirts are still standing, thankfully. Our men are retreating there to our camps. We should get you to Maester Smitherman in case your ribs are broken.” he replied, gesturing through the smoke and flames towards the northern section of the now ruined village.

As the Dornish soldiers helped him walk Jon gritted his teeth.

_Good fight, Connington._

He knew that this man would not relent, surrender or back down – he would see this through to the bitter end, making the fights to come that much more difficult. He hoped that his ribs were not broken, else he would be unable to fight – the thought of which made his stomach knot with dread.

_Have to see this through. We have to win._

_For Sansa. For Winterfell. Ghost. For my family._

* * *

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yay new chapter! so the time scale is a bit longer here then in the show obviously, it's been some time since jaime left, jon left etc etc. i hope it still works ok!

As the arguing and debate raged in the Great Hall around her, Sansa felt only more and more irritated at the situation laid out before her. At her side Arya watched the bickering nobles with a mixture of disdain and contempt, a feeling Sansa could very well share.

The raven from Dragonstone had arrived several days ago and in response to it, Sansa had called an emergency meeting of the lords of the North – news of Jon's heritage was going to get out either way now, and so it was better to come from her then word of mouth from servants.

“...Targaryens cannot be trusted!” shouted Yohn Royce, smashing a fist into the table. A few around him bellowed their approval. “I said as much when first negotiating with the Dragon Queen!”

_Jon is not the Dragon Queen,_ Sansa wanted to shout.

She was an aura of calm on the outside but within she was angry beyond reason. Not at Jon, but at Varys – whatever scheme he had played had forced her hand.

In truth, she was afraid for Jon now. _He has given so much for me – for us_.

He had fought with her to reclaim Winterfell, fought against the dead themselves without flinching. He had laid down his life for the good of the people for so long.

And now those people want to turn against him.

Sansa held the scroll in her hand, rising to her feet. She had to act fast. “It is obvious this scroll was sent with the express intention to divide us, my lords.” she announced, the eyes in the room glancing to her. “Yet we cannot afford such division while our men fight in the South against the forces of House Lannister.”

Lord Manderly rose to his feet to speak next, his face marred with doubt. “Even still, my lady – we pledged to serve Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark. Now we are faced with the revelation that not only did he pledge us to the Dragon Queen – but they share the same blood!”

_And?_ A rising irritation in her heart threatened to burst free. “Need I remind us all that without his alliance with the Dragon Queen, Winterfell would be a pile of ruin populated by shambling corpses and all of us – every House in the North – would be gone?” she countered.

He had seen this threat coming and put aside everything to meet it. It only made her love him more, something she thought impossible as it was. “Lord Reed, you are the last surviving witness to the events in Dorne.” she said, turning her gaze to the small and frail man sitting at Bran and Meera's side.

* * *

 

It had taken some time for Howland Reed to travel to Winterfell. While aged, his body was wracked with shakes and his voice hoarse and halting. Sansa gestured to one of the guards who helped the crannogman to his feet.

“We speak of suspicion and distrust, my lords.” he said, leaning on his cane – and the guard – for support, “yet it was my dearest friend and our liege lord Eddard Stark who...who made the decision he did. Not for any reasons of greed or avarice; but because of a promise. Lyanna...she begged Ned to keep her son safe. Need I share the story of Rhaegar Targaryen's other children?”

The room was silent as a few of the lords and their retainers looked uncomfortable at the topic.

“I offered to take the boy with me to Greywater, to raise him there among my own people. Yet Ned refused. A man who – I believe we can all agree, was the epitome of honour and justice – accepted a stain on that honour for the sake of a boy he did not know.” Howland continued, coughing somewhat with every word.

Manderly nodded sympathetically to him. “I understand your point, my lord. Truly – what Lord Eddard did was a noble and just thing. Yet – the North has given its loyalty to a man with the blood of the dragon. How can we be assured that Jon Snow will not succumb to the darker impulses of his bloodline?”

“Jon is not the Mad King!” Bran protested. “Nor is he the Dragon Queen.” Ever since Meera had arrived, Sansa had seen the sparks of life return to her brother's soul. He laughed easier and felt emotions – something she'd not seen since he had returned.

Sansa folded her hands on the table. “I cannot believe that a man who has spent most of his life fighting for the North – first against the threat from Beyond The Wall – no offence to you, Tormund.” she said, the wildling chieftain raising his horn of ale in acknowledgement, “and next against the cruelties of the oath-breakers of House Bolton before the walking dead and their dark masters came to Winterfell – would embrace such madness; if he was to go mad it would have taken place already.”

_I will not sit here meek and allow them to tarnish Jon._

“I understand, my lady – but how do we know that he will advance our cause given his...ties...to the Dragon Queen?” asked Lord Flint, rising to stand at Manderly's left.

Arya scowled. “He is my brother. Right now as we sit here bickering about blood and parentage he is down in the South fighting against a woman who would see us all dead.” she eyed Lord Flint angrily. “Jon has no ties to this woman or that family. He is part of _our_ family.”

“Right now Jon fights for the Dragon Queen. Yet out of our options, who can secure the North its freedom?” Sansa asked, looking to each lord in turn. “Tell me. If we do nothing and hide behind our walls, as stout as they are – what then? If the Targaryens win, she flies North and turns the North into a land of fire and blood. If the Lannisters win, they march North and finish what Joffrey started.”

“I have no love for the woman – it is clear.” she continued, rising slowly to her feet, “yet to suggest that Jon Snow is somehow...colluding with her to deny the North what it desires is an insult, knowing what we know of him.”

_Knowing what I know of him._ She longed to see him again, to feel his skin against hers. Jon awakened things within her she long thought destroyed by the other lecherous and abusive men in her life. Before him Sansa was content to remain single and unwed.

Yet now she could not imagine a life spent without him.

Laying in front of the long table Ghost watched the proceedings with mild interest, his ears continuing to perk up at his master's name. Sansa felt him in those great red eyes that guarded her and kept her safe every night, sleeping at the foot of her bed as a protector would.

Her own heart longed for Lady, her own companion who had never had a chance to live thanks to the cruelties of the South. Yet Ghost was her constant companion.

* * *

“I say this is a bunch of nonsense,” Tormund called out, pulling himself from his seat and drinking from his ale horn. “Jon Snow is the reason the free folk are still alive! I know, it wounds your kneeler hearts to hear that news, har!”

Some of the lords glared hateful daggers towards the wildling, yet he either did not notice or ignored them. “Who told you all about the coming of the Others? Who went to the far South to treat with the dragon queen for the glass and warriors for the fight? I didn't see any of your flags flappin' with his.”

“Who gave you leave to speak?” shouted Lord Royce.

Sansa held up a hand. “Ser Giantsbane is a guest here by my leave. Allow him his chance to speak.”

Tormund held his horn to her in a gesture of thanks. “Now I am no 'lord'. I don't have no fancy castle or little servants to do my bidding or kneel whenever I fart! Tormund Giantsbane is a simple man who wanted one thing – to survive! And thanks to Jon Snow, I did. More then that, the Free Folk did.”

“You all go on and on and on about 'blood' and 'birth' and I say – who the fuck cares? Tradition? Fuck tradition.” he scoffed, “now I don't know anything about this Rhogar Targarern or whatever his stupid kneeler name was, but I know Jon Snow as a man who fights for what he believes in, an' above all else he believes in this place and it's people.”

Some of the lords had the grace to look ashamed at being scolded by a wildling.

“So, my lords – shall we continue to bicker and divide ourselves further at a message sent by a creature of politics and trickery like Varys – or shall we remain united behind Jon Snow and help him to see this through until the North stands free again?” Sansa asked as Tormund took his seat. _Let us see what oaths are worth._

* * *

 

“That was a good speech.” Arya said once the trio were alone, offering Sansa a warm and sincere smile.

Sansa shrugged, leaning against the back of her chair with a sigh. “I could not stand to see them speaking ill of him like that. After all he has done? All he continues to do?” she set her hands down on the table, the headache throbbing in her temples still causing her to grit her teeth.

Though the lords had been mollified thanks to Lord Reed's testimony and the creative words of Tormund, Sansa knew that things in the South must be resolved in a timely fashion. “The longer Jon remains down there, the more worried I get. Father, Robb – men in our family do not do well there.”

Bran – who sat against the window in his wheelchair – looked away and towards his sisters. “Jon is strong.” he said with an encouraging smile, “I know he will triumph. He has the blood of two powerful families within him.”

“Blood or not, he is our brother.” Arya added once again, causing him to nod in agreement.

_He is more then that to me._ Sansa felt herself flush at her thoughts once again. At her feet, Ghost let out a soft whine as he looked up at her. “Once the Dragon Queen has her throne, Jon and I will work to secure the North's freedom as the price for our help.” she said, patting the wolf's head softly.

_It is only a matter of time, my love._ Sansa knew – at least, part of her did – that it was foolish to place her hopes entirely on Jon as she had suffered so many losses and heartbreak before. But Jon was not like the others who had won her over with her naivete. _No matter what I said or did, he stood with me._

“There is something we should consider.” Bran piped in, chewing on the bottom of his lip. “If something happens to Daenerys...well, someone would need to claim the Iron Throne once Cersei is defeated. If we go by the laws of the land, Jon does have the rightful claim.”

* * *

The thought of Jon as King of the Seven Kingdoms filled Sansa with a mixed sensation of pride and fear. The court of the south was nothing more then a nest of vipers and predators looking to exploit for their own ends; for all Jon had learned and tried to pick up on he still struggled with the concepts of deceit and misdirection.

_Though, he is learning._

“Jon doesn't want the Throne.” Arya shook her head. “You know that, Bran.”

Bran nodded. “I am well aware, but – who should take her place if she were to fall? Who would step in were she to be claimed by the madness that hangs over her family? Jon does not share the full-scale of incest that Aerys's line does.”

“We can discuss this if that should come to pass. For now, we need to ensure that the rest of the North supports Jon and our troops in the South. At last word Ser Davos and the Northern armies had encamped west of King's Landing while Jon, Gendry and the others moved up the Kingsroad to the south.” Sansa added, referring to the raven the Onion Knight had sent.

A slight smirk crossed her lips as she saw Arya blush at the mention of Gendry.

“Word from Dragonstone is not encouraging. We know that Daenerys has lost another dragon and one of her closest advisors. We also know that these setbacks may only drive her further into a rage she will not return from – given what happened to Varys.” Sansa felt a twinge of pity for the eunuch; while deceitful, treacherous and manipulative to his core, he at least believed he was working for benevolent intentions unlike certain others.

She turned to Arya. “I know you want to go south to protect Jon.” It was no secret and indeed, not a shameful feeling on her sister's behalf. “Clegane wants to go to kill Ser Gregor. You should accompany him.” The Hound had remained in Winterfell after the battle's end, generally avoiding the Starks while annoying everyone else with his foul moods.

The man's hunger for vengeance against his brother had consumed him, yet Sansa could not simply toss him out. He had shown her genuine kindness, and she would repay that kindness by allowing him to remain as long as he wished.

“I want to kill Cersei.” Arya said, her eyes darkening. “After everything that has happened -”

Sansa shook her head. “She will die. But we must think of Jon. He is in a dangerous place with the truth of his family heritage now known. Do you think that Daenerys will allow him to remain a threat like he is now?”

Her heart beat faster as she thought of the dangers to Jon. She – not a fighter like Arya – would do all she could to ensure he was able to return to her at the end of this campaign. No one, not even the blood of the ancient Valyrians themselves would prevent that.

“No.” Arya admitted, getting to her feet. “I should go find Clegane and ready for the trip.”

It hurt to see another of her pack depart the castle, but Sansa knew her little sister would protect Jon in ways she could not.

When she had left the room Sansa turned to Bran. “The final battle approaches, Bran. I cannot help but be afraid. Not just for Jon – but for all of us.” she admitted. She could trust Bran with her thoughts, now – gone was the emotionless being called the Three Eyed Raven; though there were times he would slip into that veneer, they came less and less with Meera constantly at his side.

“I know. But Jon is strong – not just in mind and body, but in his feelings and his love for you.” he said with his most encouraging and warm tone. “I will keep scrying in the Godswood – if I see anything that can be of use, I will tell you at once.”

* * *

A knock at the door pulled the pair from their shared silence. “Pardon, Lady Sansa – Lady Meera wishes to enter for Lord Brandon.” came the voice of Brienne. Her tone was still downcast and grim; the results of Jaime Lannister's abrupt departure some weeks ago.

Sansa felt her heart break for her sworn shield; the man had taken her maidenhead, it was whispered in the castle, and he had ridden off to rejoin Cersei not long after despite her own pleading. She vowed to talk with her, to offer her advice and counsel – it was a shame she had not been able to reach out sooner, but thoughts of Jon and his dilemma kept her mind occupied.

“Send her in, Brienne.” she said.

Meera offered a bow as she went to Bran, kissing him gently and taking his chair by the handles. “Lady Sansa, I am sorry for interrupting – I was just hoping to spend some time with Bran in the godswood, if that is acceptable.”

Sansa smiled. “Of course. You need not ask.”

With a swing of the door she was alone again save for Ghost, who now stood up and watched her attentively. “He will come back, Ghost.” she assured him, rising from her chair and going to the window. “Jon will come home to us.”

* * *

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for delay weakest chapter so far and the hardest for me to write. still i hope you enjoy!! i love comments

“It appears you were lucky, Lord Snow.” Maester Smitherman said as he straightened his back, taking his hands away from Jon's stomach. “The blow to your ribs did not break or crack them, which is a good sign. However, the bruising is still of concern.”

The maester grabbed a thick roll of gauze and began to wrap his stomach. “From my examination the rib cage is now tender and the risk of break is high if you were to sustain another impact to that area. Were that to occur the shard could pierce your lung and you would drown in your own fluids.”

Jon winced as the gauze was wound around his skin. Every touch of his ribs was painful. _Still, I should consider myself lucky._ “Thank you, Maester.” he said with a bow of his head. “I will ensure no more impacts are made against me.”

“I realize that the army marches upon the enemy, and soon we will find ourselves in battle yet again. However, I say this with caution – you must avoid taking the field until the bruising is given time to fade, at least.” Smitherman added.

_Impossible._

Jon shook his head, his breaths still somewhat pained. “I cannot, Maester.” he protested, “My place is at the front line with the soldiers.”

Shaking his head, the middle-aged maester eyed his ribs. “Not unless you wish to fulfill my earlier statement and drown in your own fluids.” he reached out and patted Jon's shoulder. “Allow the fighting men to take the field under another commander. You must rest if your body is to be allowed to recover.”

As the man departed, Jon shook his head angrily. _Sit out a battle,_ he groaned. He had never been one to simply hide in the rear as a base coward, barking commands to the men under him that would do the actual fighting and dying.

“How're you feeling?” asked Gendry as he pushed his way into the tent, taking a seat next to Jon. “Prince Quentyn told me about what happened. It was lucky you didn't get yourself killed, in all honesty – a blow from a brass hand?”

Jon shrugged. “Connington wanted to test me.” he coughed, “well he certainly succeeded. Maester does not want me to take the field for at least a week – while we prepare to march on the next outpost.”

Gendry nodded. “Sensible. I mean a hit like that could kill you.”

_I cannot hide behind the soldiers. That is not what a leader does._ “I am always at the front of the battle, Gendry.” Jon grumbled angrily. “I am not the type of leader to bark orders from the safety of the rear guard.”

“We know that.” Gendry replied, patting his arm in a show of support. “But planning the attack is just as important, Jon. You know the lords need your mind as much as your sword arm. Seven knows I can't help them plan anything.”

Getting to his feet Jon pulled on his brigantine as gingerly as possible. Pain still flooded through his body as he adjusted his arms; it was as if a thousand hot knives were driving into his rib-cage. The sensation brought back thoughts of his murder – the searing pains in his chest and stomach when the knives of his brothers were driven into him.

Finally sliding the coat over his head he adjusted the buttons on the front, his fingers trembling as he did so.

“You alright?” Gendry asked, reaching out to stop his swaying. “Do you need me to get the maester again?”

Jon shook his head. “No, I just...” he sighed, sitting back down as the pain threatened to make him sick. An instant feeling of relief washed over him as he did so, his arms going limp at his side. “Why now? We are close to the capital.” Jon growled, gritting his teeth as pain shot through him with every breath.

“We'll get there. And when we do, you will be well enough to take to the front with me.” Gendry teased, “I have to say, the rush of battle – it's something I never thought I'd experience before. Is it always like this?”

_Was it?_ Jon felt he was not a typical fighter – it had only been the thoughts of home and of Sansa that spurred him into the battle rage at the last battle.

Before that, when he was fighting the dead or the wildlings – he felt nothing but his urge to survive. “No.” he said after a pause. “but you need to be careful when those feelings do stir up – you'll snap out of your haze only to find you've murdered children or raped women.”

Saying nothing, Gendry only nodded.

“We...when we get to King's Landing, you and the lords will need to keep the soldiers under control. I will do the same for the Northern armies.” Jon added with a shake of his head. “If Cersei does not surrender and we have to take the city, they will want to rape and pillage. But we cannot set that example! How is the Queen to call herself a liberator if her soldiers slaughter and steal from those who would be her subjects?”

“I saw the same thing in the Riverlands, actually.” Gendry said, face looking uncomfortable. “When I was with the Brotherhood. Homes torched, small-folk slain, women raped and children savaged by Lannister and Stark alike. I don't want to be responsible for it.”

Jon patted his arm lightly. “As long as you lead from the front – as you are wont to do, you will not have any problems.” he smiled, “once they see their liege lord ordering them to restrain themselves, they will.”

“I hope you're right.” Gendry rose to his feet. “Come on. Prince Quentyn's asked for us to attend his war council. Like I said, I can't offer strategy on anything – thankfully Maester Connors came with us, because he has to read my letters.”

* * *

The mere act of sitting down made Jon's chest sting with pain. Every breath was a chance at further agony depending on how deep or shallow it was. Yet still, he knew that he should consider himself lucky that the blow did no lasting damage.

Still, the fact he had to sit out a battle was demoralizing to him. With a sigh he dipped the quill into the ink and set it against the paper. _If I am to sit idle, I should put my mind to something more relaxing._

He had not written to Sansa since his arrival in the Stormlands, and the guilt was overwhelming. He knew that she would understand, of course – the campaign against Cersei moved at lighting speed – but it still made his heart ache all the more intense.

Winterfell was safe under her care, he knew, and she would be able to command the banners of the North far better then he ever could. Even still he dreaded the upcoming talks he would need to have with Daenerys – the future of the North was at stake, and she could be a troubling enemy to have.

“I hope this ends soon,” he mumbled quietly, finding himself unable to write. “us Stark men do not do well in the South.”

“You could say that again.” a familiar voice said from the entrance of his tent.

* * *

Jon blinked. He blinked again, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Arya?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Who else?” she grinned, launching forward into his arms.

He hugged her tight; it was as if he did not want to let go. They had been apart for so long, the two of them – only for him to need to march south not long after their reunion. For so long Jon had assumed her dead and buried in some grotto outside of the capital – it was a relief beyond description to have been wrong.

The agony in his chest was intense, yet the happiness at seeing her again outweighed that – if only for a moment. “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking a few thin breaths.

“I'm here with Clegane.” she said, thumbing behind her to where The Hound stood rolling his eyes. “We are heading for the capital to kill Cersei.”

“You can't!” he protested, getting to his feet slowly. “We've still to fight our way through the Golden Company defences -”

The Hound scoffed. “Fuck the Golden Company. They aren't looking for two travellers, that's for bloody certain. And I'm not after the Lannister bitch – though she deserves the blade as much as Gregor does.”

Slumping back down in the seat, Jon rubbed his forehead. “Even if you make it through the enemy lines, you do know how dangerous the capital will be? She is expecting an invasion, and the city will be crawling with soldiers loyal to her and her alone.”

“She will,” Arya agreed, taking a seat next to him. “but she won't be expecting an attack from within.”

“Arya – you know I cannot just let you do this. Risking your life on such a mission - “ Jon said as an annoyed grunt from The Hound cut him off.

“For fuck's sake, you can't talk her out of this one.” he grumbled. “Besides Snow, you saw what she did to those dead fuckers in Winterfell. Thanks to her that we're still alive and having this pointless discussion.”

“It will be alright, Jon.” she assured him with a gentle smile, reaching over and placing a letter in front of him. “Sansa wanted me to give you this on the count you haven't written much.”

He blushed, rubbing his neck uncomfortably. “We have been busy fighting our way to King's Landing. I've just...” he sighed, gritting his teeth in pain with every breath. “trying to work through the pain I am in on top of everything else as we prepare; when we get to the city, it will be a trying fight even with Drogon on our side.”

That just made Arya laugh. “She knows, silly. Anyhow – we should be off. It will be easy to get into the city given that Cersei's ordered all small-folk to shelter inside.”

“She is trying to hide behind the people.” scoffed Jon. “Coward.”

“Depending on the dragon queen's mood, it might work.” Arya cautioned.

Jon nodded. Given the volatile nature of Daenerys and her state of mind as of late, he was not sure that Cersei would find any succour by shielding herself with peasants and farmers looking for security within the city walls.

_If we are not careful, they will all burn, and Arya along with them_. The thought made him shiver. “I want you to be careful, Arya. Please.” Jon had never been one for begging, but he found the tone in his voice almost pleading.

“Valar Morgulis.” she said, wrapping her arms gingerly around him and placing a kiss on his cheek. “don't worry, Jon – I am not out of this yet.” she winked and headed for the tent flap.

As Clegane turned to follow Jon called out to him, causing him to turn back around with a disinterested glare. “I do not care what your mission is inside the city. Slay your brother, slay Cersei – slay the entire Lannister army if you so wish.” he grimaced, coughing slightly. “but no matter what you do I want you to watch over her. She is my sister – my family.”

He swore that a ghost of a smile appeared on the Hound's face before fading. “Why do you think I came with her?” he grunted, “gods, you Stark...Targaryen...whatever the fuck you are men sure are thick of head.”

* * *

Jon snorted a laugh as the man barged from the tent. Turning to his desk, he eyed the letter from Sansa with a warm feeling washing over him. _I have not forgotten you, my love._ Soon I will return and we can begin to build ourselves – our lives – together.

Yet even as he ran a hand over it, he resisted the urge to open it until the next battle had been won. _It would be all the more sweeter_ , he reasoned. Even though he was not taking part in that battle thanks to his injury, it would be a euphoric feeling of victory that would only serve to heighten his determination should he read it then.

“Soon, I will be rid of all of this southron nonsense.” he mumbled as he reclined in his chair, eyes growing heavy. Sleep took him almost abruptly.

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

“We have the scorpion crews training double shifts to prepare, Your Grace.” said Ser Damon Marbrand, offering a respectful bow as he returned to his seat at the table. “Whenever the dragon queen deigns to strike, King's Landing will be ready.”

Cersei nodded, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the wood. “Good work, Ser Marbrand. The only question remains – where will she strike from?”

_It's not long now,_ she mused, that Daenerys Targaryen would have to make her move. The past few weeks had seen King's Landing preparing for her arrival – Cersei had ensured the gates be opened to all terrified small-folk fleeing the coming invader. Those healthy enough were conscripted into the Lannister forces or City Watch, allowing for further bolstering of her already impressive numbers.

“If she's smart -” drawled Euron Greyjoy from her side, “she'll try to take us by surprise. Do what we expect her not to do; a frontal assault upon the walls.” he added, folding his hands neatly. “Then again, she is also a young girl consumed by grief – grief that can be exploited for us to win.”

The swaggering ironborn king was a necessary evil, Cersei knew. She had – with great feelings of disgust and shame – invited him into her bed so as to solidify control over his ships. He had proven himself a warrior, having slain one of the dragon queen's beasts not long ago. Yet it did not make her dalliances with him any easier.

He was an arrogant and proud man, with dark whispers making their way to the halls of the Red Keep from Qyburn's birds. Whispers of blood magic and secret forgotten faiths the man kept aboard the Silence. Whatever the truth, she would have it from him once the war was won.

“Additional scorpions must be constructed.” Cersei commanded, looking to the council before her. “I want them built on the major buildings around the city – Visenya's Hill, on the Streets of Steel, anything. It is not good enough to just have them on the battlements around us.”

She turned to Harry Strickland, who sat to her left. “General Strickland – I want you to recall Connington and his soldiers from the kingswood.”

The mercenary blinked, brows furrowing in confusion. “Your Grace? With respect, Jon is fulfilling the orders I gave him – to harass and reduce the enemy force marching here.”

* * *

“I am well aware, General – but the capital has need of the Golden Company in its entirety.” she repeated, her tone growing firm. The mercenaries had proven themselves useful thus far – even without their famed elephants, much to her irritation – but it was time to pull them back to the city so as to turn King's Landing into a veritable fortress.

_The dragon bitch will not dare attack here._ Cersei knew the girl's type – she felt herself to be a liberator, come to set the people free from the misrule of House Lannister. _An idealist and a pathetic one at that,_ she knew from the whispers. She will want to ensure the least amount of collateral damage done to the people of the city as possible.

Her naive attempts at upholding her morals would see her assault fail – her armies breaking themselves on the walls while her dragon would be shot from the sky as its sibling had over the waters of Dragonstone.

Strickland nodded. “I shall of course send the orders with my best rider, Your Grace. Might I ask as to what the company will be doing within the walls?” he asked, cocking his head ever so slightly.

“Helping to shore up our defences, of course.” she answered; the man's boldness was getting somewhat irritating, though it was to be expected from its leadership, to be sure. “Digging trenches, building the new scorpions we need and setting up fortifications; when the dragon queen's pathetic little armies attack, they will break themselves on the spears of the Company.”

Rising from his chair, the mercenary commander offered a bow as he made for the door. After his exit, the other lords in the room turned towards Cersei. “With respect, Your Grace – do we need his ilk here in the capital?” asked Lord Crakehall, his large face narrowing.

“His ilk are providing the bulk of the defence against the enemy as we speak, my lord.” answered Qyburn from behind her. Ever at her side, her Hand had proven himself to be the most useful member of the council since her rise to power. “The Company is experienced with fighting against enemies of all types, and their work in delaying the southern approach has been much appreciated by our Queen.”

Lady Dorna Swyft– who had come to the meeting as pale as a ghost and stayed that way – finally managed to squeak out a question. “How d-do we know that they will not simply change sides when they see a dragon against them?”

“Aunt Dorna -” Cersei gently took the woman's bony hand. “with the power of the scorpions – and the Iron Fleet – on our side, there will be no cause for them to desert us.” she smiled. Dorna was widow to her late uncle Kevan, who had perished in the destruction of the Sept of Baelor.

Cersei felt some regret over her uncle's death – he had ever been loyal to her father – but the past was the past; she had invited Dorna to the capital to act as an adviser to her, helping to ensure the woman's continued loyalty by having her close.

Though her advice was usually hopeless, it was good to have at least one member of the family in the city, even if it was her uncle's thin and bony wife.

“You all may go, my lords.” Cersei dismissed them with a wave. “Save for you, Qyburn.”

* * *

Her trusted Hand remained at his seat, bowing his head as the last of the room filed out. She tapped her fingers on the table, looking towards the window. “Have the barrels been delivered?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” he answered almost cheerfully. “We have placed the wildfire at the foot of Aegon's Hill and nearest the Hook, where the greatest concentration of small-folk are gathering. Enough to be visible from the air, as well.”

“Good.” she smiled. _It was a small wonder why the Mad King loved the substance,_ she mused. It had proven incredibly useful thus far; from destroying the majority of her enemies in one fell and terrible swoop to commanding the respect – and fear – of the people of the capital.

Now it would be a further weapon against the Dragon Queen; will you kill the people you wish to rule?

No, she knew. The girl fancies herself a liberator. She will go out of her way to spare the people – and in the process damn herself.

“The girl is in over her head.” she said, not to anyone in particular. “She is not a true Targaryen. Fire and Blood, that was their House saying. She is creeping forward with a foolish idealism that has no place among rulers.”

_I should have been a Targaryen. I do what is needed._

Qyburn folded his hands on the table. “If I may, Your Grace – my little birds have confirmed that Ser Jaime was taken captive by the Targaryen forces as we believed. He is being held in the camp outside of the city.”

“Forget him. He made his choice.” she sneered. _How could you? After all we have done, all we have shared_. Jaime – the one she had loved unconditionally since they were children, having entered the world with him – had abandoned her. Abandoned their child. “Let the northerners or eunuchs kill him for all I care.”

He was dead to her. Too attached to Tyrion, she knew. The little leech had killed their mother with his misbegotten birth, and he had all but killed Jaime by corrupting him away from her side.

“There is also the matter of the ravens sent by Varys to the high lords of the realm.” Qyburn continued, pulling a scroll from the sleeve of his robe. “If this is authentic -”

* * *

She waved him off. “If it is, it sews division in their own ranks. Either way, it matters not to our purposes. The city will hold and the dragon will die – no matter who calls themselves heir to the Iron Throne. It is mine now.”

“He should have been mine.” Cersei said quietly, lamenting the past that had been cruelly snatched from her. “I was supposed to marry Prince Rhaegar, you know. Father...he promised it. Only the best for my daughter, and what was better than being Queen?”

Qyburn remained silent as she continued. “I had to look my best for him when I was introduced. Even though I knew he was handsome, by the gods – he was as close to perfection as any man ever would be, even Jaime.” She wiped at her face, annoyed at the tears falling from her eyes. “And his harp...it moved us all to tears. Even my father had water under his eyes.”

“The smiles died that night. My father had been refused by the Mad King.” She felt her hands ball into fists, the anger and anguish coming back to her in waves. “Instead he chose a sickly Dornish woman with a flat chest and small hips. No wonder he was insane. If I had been married to him, the prince would never have needed to run away with the Stark girl. I could – I would have given him as many children as he wanted.”

The memories exhausted her. “If the scroll is true, Jon Snow should have been my son. Not Lyanna Stark's. She did not deserve him. But...the past is the past. Rhaegar Targaryen is twenty years dead – and here I am, sitting on the throne he was promised. No sister or son of his will take it from me – from us.” she grasped her stomach.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Qyburn said simply.

Cersei looked up, almost surprised he was there. “You may go. See to the preparations and make sure those idiot mercenaries arrive in good order.”

As he left the room, Cersei returned her gaze to the window.

* * *

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> obviously egg and griff are references to young griff in the books but here they are unrelated to joncon
> 
> short chapter and my weakest but i hope you enjoy!!

“Withdraw? Is she mad?” Connington exclaimed, reading over the message further. “We are wearing down the approaching armies, little by little. Even the Queen should be able to see that, no?”

The messenger did not flinch, only offering a shrug. “My orders are to present you with these instructions from General Strickland and the Queen herself. In addition, the Queen commands you fire the kingswood with the wildfire you possess to deny the enemy its resources.”

Jon grumbled, shaking his head wearily. _The woman has no idea of tactics_ , he mused bitterly.

_Look at what I am reduced to, Rhaegar. If you had trusted me you would sit on the Iron Throne instead of in a grave somewhere, and I would not be forced to run here and there at the whim of Tywin Lannister's daughter._

“Will you not obey?” the messenger asked, raising his brow.

“I did not say that.” he sighed. “Return to your master and tell her that we will begin the withdrawal at once.”

As the messenger galloped away, Connington turned to his outpost. All around, the Company men were drilling, digging trenches and otherwise going about their day, some gambling and drinking and socializing with their fellows.

“Egg! Griff!” he barked, summoning his two serjeants. “New orders from General Strickland. We withdraw to the city at once.”

The two men looked at each other warily. Egg, the elder – so named for his curiously shaped head – scratched his brow with a confused expression upon his face. “Withdraw, captain, sir? Why for?”

“Orders from the Queen.” he replied, crumpling up the scroll. “I mislike it as much as you do, but she is the client and we are bound to obey.”

“What about the rest of our men?” Griff asked, looking down the kingsroad into the distance. “If they have not engaged the enemy by now -”

Jon shook his head. “It matters not if they have or have not. We have to leave at once. Egg, see to the men. Griff, I want you to prepare the catapults and the wildfire. My orders are to set the kingswood aflame once we begin our march.”

“But Captain, ser -” Griff began, his face uneasy.

“I know, Griff. I know.” Jon frowned. “but we've little choice in this one. See to the wildfire, and be careful with it.”

* * *

As the two men hurried away Jon scratched at his beard, his good hand twitching painfully. _Now we will hide behind the walls and wait,_ I suppose. He was a student of history and he knew that such a decision was foolish – dragons cared little for high walls or strong defences.

Still, the pirate king Greyjoy had killed one – so it was possible that some of the scorpion operators would get lucky. He laughed, the thought of it a bitter taste in his mouth – they were Lannisters, after all. So far, he knew the stories that came from the capital's pot shops and other less reputable establishments; Cersei had maintained her power through raw fear, with the destruction of the Great Sept of Baelor a stark reminder of what she would do to secure her own throne.

_Aerys would have loved her,_ he mused. Jon still saw the mad monarch in his dreams at times – the dishevelled, filthy sovereign ranting and raving about imagined plots and slights against him and his rule. How he loved watching men burn.

After his humiliating failure to defeat Robert at the Stony Sept, Jon had returned to the capital to face the king's judgment. He was sure that his death would come, and painfully; he was there the day that Aerys burned Rickard Stark, and he did not envy the northern lord the suffering he endured.

Yet perhaps due to Rhaegar's influence the Mad King had been merciful – to an extent. Jon had been stripped of his lands and exiled, but he was left with his life. _More then could be said for future Hands,_ he mused.

Harry had told him not to dwell on the past; it was better to focus on the life he had lived since his departure from Westeros. It was true; Jon had won glory for the Golden Company in battlefields across Essos – Volantis, Pentos, Lys and beyond.

He stopped before the great catapults, watching as Griff and his men loaded the barrels of wildfire into the arm. Even seeing the green substance made his skin crawl; but what choice did he have? Orders were orders; they had to deny the enemy force as much chance to use the forests for supply and cover as possible.

“Launch when ready.” he ordered, turning back to face the green and verdant forests. It was almost a shame to have to resort to such destruction, but he knew that in time the forests would grow back and life would return to these parts.

_What of my life? Was it to fight endlessly in the wars of those wealthy enough to pay us?_ He had been groomed to assume lordship of Griffon's Roost upon his father's death, being his only child. Leadership and command was in his blood.

Yet he knew that when this war was over the Company would return to Volantis where their elephants were housed and offer themselves up for more coin and wealth to the feuding merchant cities or slaver domains.

_It does you no good to think of what could have been, Connington._

As the woods around them erupted into flame Griff grasped Jon's arm. “Ser, we have to go!”

Shaking from his stupor, Jon mounted his horse and galloped off, his retinue following close behind.

He hoped to find his death somewhere in all of this. Slain by a fellow warrior, incinerated by dragon fire, hanging from a stout tree – anything, really. Twenty years of second-rate service as a mercenary had ground him down to a shadow of the man he once was. Yet he was too loyal to simply commit suicide – he had to find his end at the hands of another.

Perhaps it would be the dragon son, though he doubted it. The boy had been raised by the Starks – honourable, loyal and rebellious – and thus his fighting style would not be as fierce or angry as that of his dragon-sire. Rhaegar had fought with passion, with strength, and with conviction. Gods, that was a fighter! A warrior worth following.

The acrid smell of burning wood irritated his nose. Thankfully clear of the now-growing inferno, the men of the Golden Company marched for King's Landing, Jon riding his way to the head of their column.

No matter what comes he would give it all he had.

Even if it was for Tywin Lannister's wretched daughter.

* * *

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! work and life as usual makes it difficult to pump out content as much as I would like. 
> 
> still I hope you guys enjoy. i promise more jonsa content when the two lovers reunite but I have to fix some of the season 8 dumpster fire first

“Well, we made it.” Gendry said, clapping Jon on the back.

Jon nodded, eyes fixated on the looming walls of the city. Around him, the soldiers and lords both were busy setting up camp; assembling their tents, erecting spike traps and dolling out much needed food and water to the starving men.

_It had been a risky and dangerous few days,_ Jon mused.

Only a day out of their victory at the second set of enemy defences had the woods around them erupted into green flame, the unmistakable blaze devouring the trees around them in seconds. There would be no moving forward, the lords knew – and so Jon and Gendry had done the second best thing.

They had led the men into the woods, grabbing what supplies and horses from the wagons that they could as they made for the eastern forest, still untouched. After walking – running, even – for what felt like days they had been able to cross the conflagration without injury or death before it consumed the whole half of the kingswood.

His lungs still burned from the jogging and running, even though his ribs had now healed to the point he could return to the battlefield.

* * *

“It still is not over yet.” Jon replied, folding his arms tight. Beside him, Gendry gave a few practice swings of his new war-hammer; a one-handed version that allowed him to use a shield; he had protested at first against discarding his two-handed style but Jon had insisted – a dead lord would do no good to a Seven Kingdoms that needed rulers.

“So what happens next?” Gendry asked, taking a seat on the small rise overlooking the camp.

Jon shrugged, sitting down next to him. “Once we take the city then the Seven Kingdoms can start to rebuild and repair the damage done by the Lannisters and their misrule, I suppose. Though, I have to confess – it matters not to me.”

Gendry shook his head. “I mean with you and Sansa.” He chuckled at Jon's surprised expression. “Oh come on, now. You look at her the way I look at Arya – it's plain as day for anyone who's ever been in love to see.”

Smiling, Jon said nothing a moment as he stared at the dirt.

Sansa was always there – always on his mind since departing Winterfell what felt as though a thousand years ago. When he slept, he would sometimes have the wolf dreams – seeing through Ghost's eyes, where he almost always slept in her chamber and spent his days by her side.

_Like I would,_ he mused. No words could describe how much he missed her, how much he longed for her. _The world feels hollow without you by my side._ Were it possible he would abandon the war and ride for Winterfell, never looking back.

Forget southern politics and conflicts. Forget kings and queens and blood and great houses. All he wanted was to spend forever with someone who he had given his heart to – someone who would love him for the man he was.

“I am not certain.” he said, “but we shall have to wait until the war is over and then...then we can discuss the future that lies ahead for us.”

Gendry nodded. “I hope after all of this Arya and I can...sit down and talk.” he said, a hopeful tone in his voice.

Jon patted him on the shoulder. “Rest assured that you've my blessing in this. Arya cares for you, Gendry – as I have said a half-hundred times by now – but she just needs time. More then that, we need time to finish this conflict.”

The two men sat in renewed silence, both of them clearly going over the thoughts of their loved ones. Jon looked to the distant walls of King's Landing and felt a sense of guilt; he could have told Gendry about Arya's visit, but he chose not to. It was perhaps cruel, but if Gendry knew that she was going to attempt her mission to kill Cersei, it would jeopardize his ability to think and act as a lord should.

_Would I understand if it were Sansa?_ Jon did not know.

Yet the end of the conflict was now in sight. Once the city was captured and Cersei dethroned, then he would be allowed to return home if only for a moment, so as to begin talks with Daenerys about the future of the North. A future that Sansa would have a say in, given her commanding presence and overall great ability as a leader compared to his own blundering persona.

As much as he relished the thought of seeing her again, Jon was also afraid.

The reaction in the North of who he really was. Though Rhaegar Targaryen meant nothing to him save for a name from a history book, being of his bloodline would not be a welcome piece of information to the long-suffering and prickly lords.

It had been hard enough to get them – most of them, at least – to support him in his choice to declare for Daenerys, and that was only thanks to his promise of future negotiations for the future of their place in her Seven Kingdoms.

“Anyway, we should get going. I know Lord Uller wanted to go over our battle plans before night fell.” Gendry finally said, breaking the silence.

Jon nodded, rising to his feet.

* * *

The tent was crammed full of nobility; lords from Dorne and the Stormlands both crowded around the table with the map of King's Landing laid out upon it, markers denoting enemy and allied forces arrayed around it.

“...once the signal is given, we will need to enter the city proper and in fast order else we risk losing the advantage.” Jon said, finger tapping on the map denoting the Old Gate. “The Lannisters still have significant numbers within the city, but given the narrow streets their advantage is almost nullified.”

Lord Harman studied the map with his usual intensity. “What will the signal be?” he asked, raising a slender brow.

“The Queen has a dragon – she will create the openings we need to enter the city.” Jon replied. The thought of her dragon burning the city did not fill him with any needed joy, but as long as she kept Drogon's flames directed towards the scorpions and walls then casualties should be kept to a minimum.

Chuckles and murmurs of approval filled his ears. “Why doesn't she fly to the Red Keep and burn it down with the Lannister bitch inside?” asked Lord Bryce Caron, one of Gendry's bannermen. “It would send a swift message to those who follow her, I'd say.”

Jon shook his head. “Destroying the seat of power for the Seven Kingdoms? That would not be a wise choice, my lord. Once the dust has settled the Queen will need a place to rule from and conduct the business of rebuilding the realm.”

“We still will face significant resistance once the gates are breached.” said Lord Harman, “the sell-swords and Lannister soldiers both, not to mention the City Watch. It will not be easy to fight our way to Aegon's Hill and take the castle.”

“Their forces will be divided.” Jon tapped on the western edge of the map. “The northern armies are camped here. Once the attack begins I will lead them in assaulting the Lion Gate and coming in through the ruins of the Sept of Baelor.”

Prince Quentyn looked to him in confusion. “You are leaving us?”

Jon nodded. “I feel it is not right for me to command two southern armies in battle while my own people stand leaderless. None the less, I have every confidence in all of us here to do our part and lead our soldiers in this attack.”

“One last thing, Lord Snow.” said Lord Harman, “I have directed Yronwood and our horse to deploy along the Rosby Road to scout for any signs of ambush. We do not want the Lannisters flanking us in the middle of the attack.”

Lord Anders Yronwood – standing at Lord Harman's side – affirmed this. “My cavalry would not do well inside the walls of a city any how. At least this way, we can ensure fair warning is given before any enemy forces can sweep in behind us.”

It was a sound plan, Jon agreed. “Our goal is the Red Keep. Once we have the castle surrounded then Cersei will have no choice but to surrender. However, I doubt that even her sworn soldiers will want to fight long against a dragon – so remember, if you hear bells then it means they have laid down their arms. Let them go; men without weapons are no threat to us.”

“And if they don't?” grumbled Lord Harman.

Jon shrugged. “Then fight until only our men are left standing. With that, my lords – I need to depart. I mean to arrive at the northern encampment tonight. I will see you all hopefully at the Red Keep.”

* * *

A hand grasped Jon's arm as he turned to leave. “Beg pardon, my lord.” came a voice, “but I wished to ask you something.”

Jon turned to face the speaker. It was an older man with balding grey hair and a withered face. “Of course, my lord...?” he did not recognize the speaker, though there were many older and withered lords among both Dorne and the Stormlands.

“Tarth. Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall.” the man bowed.

While the name of his castle did not register, Jon knew who the man was at once. “Tarth? Are you any relation to Lady Brienne of Tarth?” he asked. The woman had served as Sansa's sworn shield since her arrival at Castle Black – indeed, she had told him of how Brienne and Podrick Payne, her squire had saved her from the Bolton pursuers after her escape from Winterfell.

Jon owed the woman a debt he could never repay.

That made Lord Selwyn smile. “My daughter and heir, in fact.” His old eyes seemed to light up at the mention of her. “I wished to ask you if she was, to your knowledge, still in Lady Stark's service?”

“She is.” Jon confirmed. “I know she was injured in our fight against the Night King – but before I departed Winterfell she was healthy and fully recovered.”

“Wonderful.” The man took out a letter from his breast pocket. “I wrote a letter addressed to her, but I wanted to make sure she was still at Winterfell before I sent the raven. You have my profound thanks, Lord Snow.”

Jon smiled, patting the man's shoulder. “I am glad to have given you peace of mind, my lord.”

* * *

At the camp's makeshift stables, Jon saddled his horse, preparing to depart. As he did so, he thought of the letter that Sansa had written to him; it was still fresh in his memory, even though he had read it some time ago before the army's emergency retreat into the woods.

“ _...I continue to know in my heart that you will return to us triumphant and safe as you have done so before. Thoughts of you help to keep me focused when the burdens of leadership begin to weigh upon my shoulders.”_

He smiled, feeling the letter safely packed away in one of his saddle bags.

“I guess this is goodbye for now, eh?” said Gendry, approaching him from behind.

Jon offered a slight shrug. “For now. We will meet again at the Red Keep – when this is all over.”

Gendry patted him on the shoulder. “I wanted to say – thank you. For helping me...I mean, understand what it means to be a lord. Your advice and...well, watching you has given me some important things to think about.”

“I barely did anything at all!” he protested with a laugh, “you were the one to pick up on what the other lords have been teaching you. Still...thank you, Gendry.” Jon smiled, warm and sincere.

“Save me some of those Lannister pricks, eh?” he joked. “I need to test my new war mace properly.”

Mounting up onto his horse, Jon took the reins. “I cannot promise anything!”

With that he was off, galloping into the evening.

* * *

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a pre 8x05 battle chapter with each character getting a small pov. i hope you guy enjoy I did my best! hugs

Stepping up to the window overlooking the city Cersei exhaled softly and ran her hands down the front of her dress. A grating sense of dread had overtaken her when she woke up, knowing that today would be the day to determine the future of both her reign and her child.

_I will not let the Targaryen bitch take you, little one._ This child growing inside of her was the last she would have, and that much she knew was fact. Women became unable to bear children as they grew older and she knew her time was fast approaching.

The courtyard of the Red Keep was packed full of frightened small-folk desperately seeking succour from the approaching invaders. The dragon queen's propensity for mercy would work against her – she would not attack the keep proper so as to spare the innocents from the wrath of her dragon fire.

Yet innocents die in war all the time, Cersei knew. Her children were living proof of this – Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella – all cut down in their prime before they had a chance to grow and thrive and claim their rightful places in the annals of House Lannister.

It mattered not if her forces were victorious in the coming battle. She would not allow Daenerys to take her father's throne – the wildfire placed all around the city, mostly by the Mad King himself – would consume all should she give the command; destroying her own kingdom was a better fate then to live as a prisoner of an invader.

“Your Grace.” bowed Ser Damon Marbrand as he entered the room. “The City Watch has begun deploying to the Lion Gate as instructed.”

She had appointed him as acting Commander of the gold-cloaks for the duration of the emergency; most of her commanders and counsel were from the Westerlands as they were the only ones truly loyal to the cause of House Lannister.

“Good. And my aunt?” she asked almost as an afterthought. It would do no good for Uncle Kevan's wife to die in the siege, so Cersei had made arrangements for her to flee.

Marbrand nodded. “Her carriage left the Mud Gate less then an hour ago.”

She waved him away, though it was just moments before another one of her servants begged an audience. This man was Ser Andar Brax – who commanded the bulk of the Lannister army inside the city. An older and wizened leader, he'd served her father for many years and was a reliable defender and tactician.

“As commanded, Your Grace, I have staggered most of our men near the Old Gate.” he said, tone crisp and neutral. “Should the northmen make it through the mercenary lines they will find their approach well resisted indeed.”

“The scorpions?” she asked impatiently. They were the most important tool in her arsenal today.

Brax nodded. “Crews are fully trained and supplied, Your Grace. When the Dragon Queen makes her approach we will be ready.”

_Bring your worst to bear, dragon queen_. Cersei smiled.

* * *

Euron Greyjoy was growing impatient. The shadow-binder had been chanting and working over his fire for the past hour without saying anything; the man's constant drone of Assha'i had already begun to irritate him, even as used to the language as he was.

“Well?” he asked as the figure turned his head. “What do your fires say now, priest?”

His black and red mask – _a hallmark for those from that accursed city_ , Euron mused – barely moved as the man rose to his feet. “The signs have not changed, pirate king. The lion without a paw shall maul the kraken lord in the ruins of the lion's great city as it burns.”

_This is getting tiresome,_ Euron growled to himself.

He had spent almost three years gathering the various holy men of the world – Qartheen warlocks, Mantaryan storm-singers, Braavosi moon-singers, and Asshai'i shadow-binders, to name a few – to craft and weave their portents so as to allow him to prepare and gather his own fate.

He'd already butchered the warlock and strung the moonsinger from the mast of the _Silence_ when they had failed to produce anything, and now the shadow-binder was spending all of his time preaching about how he would be bested by Jaime Lannister, of all people. It was enough to make Euron laugh, in a strange way.

“And your ash?” he whispered, “have you prepared it as I asked?”

The shadow-binder nodded, handing him a small pouch. “I must warn you, pirate king. Do not use this lightly – the magics required to craft even a small amount of shadow ash is exhaustive and taxing upon even the strongest of my art.”

Euron pocketed the pouch inside of his shirt. _At least this one wasn't a full waste,_ he thought.

“Now, as to your agreement -” the man began before Euron stuck him in the stomach with his dagger. He ran the blade up the man's skin, his intestines beginning to push out from the open wound as blood and gore fell to the desk.

“I said I would let you go when you gave me what I wanted.” he whispered into the ear of the gasping priest, “but you only gave me some of what I wanted. So, I don't have to agree to anything.”

Today was the day of the dragon queen's invasion.

Euron did not feel any fear from this impending attack, no – instead a sick sense of excitement washed over him like a flood. His Iron Fleet would fight – and most likely die – by the droves, their ships burned and ravaged by the great beast and his queen.

More over it would mean the end of Cersei Lannister. She had been, from the start, nothing more then a great bore to him. He had been with corsair slaves with more life then that old maid. Yet she was the reigning monarch of what was left of the Seven Kingdoms, and he needed her soldiers and resources to forge ahead.

Pulling the blade from the dead man's stomach, Euron licked the blood from the steel and chuckled darkly.

_If only she knew the true face of Euron Greyjoy, she would never have invited me into her bed._

The swaggering persona of pirate king had served him well; it was what propelled him to victory at the Kingsmoot after he disposed of Balon, but it grew tiresome quite quickly. To act as a fool would, stumbling around at the greatness of the woman he'd been promised to – when her own intellect would not even equal that of two fleas fucking – was an act he would be happy to get rid of.

As his crew disposed of the shadow-binder, Euron went onto the deck. Around him, the rest of the crew ran this way and that, scorpions pointed at the sky as they looked for the coming of the dragon. The Iron Fleet held the Blackwater Rush, and it would be a logical place for the young dragon-lord to launch her attack from.

Once Daenerys had disposed of Cersei for him, he would have a much easier time capturing the Iron Throne for himself against a tired and fractured realm crying out for stability. A part of him wanted to keep the dragon alive – Drogon was a great beast, the last of his kind. Even during his travels into the smoking ruins of Valyria, Euron had seen no sign that dragons yet lived.

But its death would mean his victory, so it would need to be dealt with.

The hold of the _Silence_ still held several priests – one from Yi Ti, another from the female dominated city of Bayasabhad and a bearded priest of Norvos. He looked forward to seeing what kind of secrets they would teach him. 

As for Jaime Lannister, well – a one handed sister-fucker was hardly a threat.

Even Euron had to admit, though – his constant insults and mockery towards the Kingslayer was one part of his persona that he enjoyed.

* * *

Pushing his way forward with the throng of frightened people, Jaime Lannister felt a growing dread the closer he got to the Red Keep.

It had been easy to get into the city, given that all of the gates were wide open for small-folk fleeing the advance of the dragon queen. Lannister soldiers – whom he once may have commanded a million years ago – directed the masses through the winding streets towards Aegon's Hill.

_We have to leave this place, Cersei._

Thoughts of her had permeated his mind since he had originally left, riding north to help fight against the Others and their dead minions. She had bore him three children – and carried his child even now – how could he not?

The mass of people halted at one of the gates, the great structure slamming shut before he could enter. Around him, the frightened and despairing cries of women, babies and old people rang out as they pleaded, shouted and offered fantastic sums to be let in.

Shoving his way around the despairing masses, Jaime disappeared up a flight of stairs that lead up towards the battlements of the gate. _Take her and flee,_ Tyrion's words echoed in his head. _If the winds are good you will make it to Pentos._

He paused, resting his good hand on the brick. A new thought – one on his mind since the night he left Winterfell – roared into the forefront.

_Brienne._

Shame and guilt washed over him like a flood. She was the life that Jaime wanted, truly wanted; yet he was enthralled to the evil woman that was his sister; a woman evil enough to burn a good portion of the city for the sake of eliminating her enemies as she did with the Sept of Baelor.

A woman willing to see her own family dead in her mad pursuit of power.

What was Brienne?

She was brave, true, noble, kind and beautiful. The ideal knight, the ideal woman. Jaime was almost in awe of her now as he thought of the tall beauty that had given her maidenhead to him; to think, I had once mocked her as a beast. But that Jaime was dead; lost in the Riverlands along with his sword hand.

He desperately, desperately wanted to stay with her. To forget about Cersei – Brienne had been honest when she had told him that he could not save her – but that affection and love was not enough to beat out the feelings of duty he had to the woman he had come into the world with.

It was better off this way, he realized. To be hated as a sister-fucker and man without honour. He did not deserve the love and affection of a good woman; all he had was Cersei – and it was what he deserved.

_Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honour._

“Ser!” called a guardsman as Jaime approached the ramp to the battlements. “No civilians here, ser! Turn around and -”

Jaime removed his hood and the man paled. “Ser Jaime?”

He nodded. “I need to get to the Red Keep, son. The Queen is counting on me – on us. Do you want to let her down?”

The young – likely barely out of manhood – soldier shook his head. “N-no, ser. Apologies – we weren't expecting to see you again, is all.”

Using his good hand he patted the boy's shoulder, offering a gentle smile. “No need to worry. Now, I hate to push past you but I should hurry. The Queen – she needs me now, before the dragon queen arrives.”

The boy said nothing else as Jaime rushed past, making his way onto the battlements.

_You deserve a better man, Brienne. I wish I could be that better man for you, but I cannot._

He just wished that he could have held her again, one last time.

* * *

Thanks to her small size Arya was able to squeeze through the tightly packed groups of frightened small-folk much easier then The Hound, who in his usual blunt fashion simply shoved them out of the way.

Gold-cloaks and Lannister soldiers were everywhere, urging the frightened people away from the outermost sections of the city and toward Aegon's Hill – where the Red Keep loomed ominously overhead.

Saying nothing as they went Arya instead thought of why she was here – to finally bring justice to the woman who was responsible for the myriad of suffering brought upon her family; the woman who now sat as monarch of a shattered kingdom.

As much as she was here for Cersei, however, Arya was also here for Jon – who she knew commanded one of the armies now waiting outside of the city gates. Sansa had said as much; she needed to protect him while he was down here – and not just against the forces of House Lannister.

Daenerys was as much of a problem as Cersei – she knew who Jon really was, and her fragile mental state had already become compromised as a result. Jon was, thankfully not as naive as she had once believed and knew full-well what kind of challenges awaited their family when the fires had died down.

_Their family._ Arya smiled; Jon was her big brother, the one who was always there to ruffle her hair and plan mischief with. Always there to call her little sister and remind her of her worth. Nothing about what he had told her changed that.

Another thought came unbidden to her mind; that of Gendry, the man who she had given her maidenhead to. Blushing, Arya tried to push it aside – now was not the time to think of such things – but his loud and passionate proclamation of love and marriage had been something she had not been expecting or used to.

Perhaps she would pay him a visit once this was done.

Her thoughts were interrupted by The Hound as he banged his hand on a gate in front of her. “This is the main road to Aegon's Hill. We'll have to go around.” he whispered with an annoyed growl, “of course the fuckers do not want to make this easy.”

As the pair turned down one of the winding side streets Arya shot a glance up at the Red Keep.

_It won't be long now._

* * *

“If you hear the bells ring, they surrender. Call off your men.” Tyrion said, turning to look at him.

Jon said nothing, his gaze cast on the walls of King's Landing. The scorpions adorning the walls were all aimed to the sky, ready to take shot at Daenerys and Drogon at first sight of them. Before the gates stood the men of the Golden Company, ready to engage his northern force should they attack the city walls.

_I doubt Cersei Lannister will surrender._ Jon did not know the woman as well as Tyrion did, but he knew her type – she would rather die then admit defeat to even a superior foe. Still, part of him hoped that the men at arms serving her would see sense and agree to surrender once the battle was joined proper.

His men barked orders and gathered into formation, arraying themselves in columns alongside the surviving eunuchs of the Unsullied and the Dothraki horsemen. The Unsullied commander Grey Worm stood just behind him, eyeing the walls with the same cold gaze that he held since the loss of Missandei, whom he learned was his lover.

Turning his thoughts north Jon allowed himself a moment with Sansa – a moment in his mind, where he was home and reunited with her once more. Yet as much as he wanted to linger there, to make the moment last a life time he knew that the war had to be won first.

As Tyrion waddled off, Jon turned his head to Davos. “How are you feeling?”

The Onion Knight answered with a shrug. “This is my least favourite part of war. The waiting.”

Jon's mind had turned back to family as he wondered of Arya. She was in there, likely disguised among the chaos and fear of the people now desperately seeking succour from what they saw as an invasion lead by a woman with a dragon.

He prayed to both his father's gods and the gods of the south. _Let her live. Let her escape and return to us whole and healthy. Let this end quickly so I may return to the ones I love._

* * *

Gendry clutched his mace so tightly that his hand ached, even more then the shield he held to his left.

Around him the men of the Stormlands and Dorne had formed into neat rows, shields arrayed towards the walls of King's Landing. A thick and deathly silence permeated the air around him as he felt his heart beating rapidly.

He was no leader. Yet now he was charged with leading men into battle – a battle that would determine the fate of not just himself, but those who he fought with and whom called him 'lord'.

“Fret not, my lord. “ said a voice from his right. Ser Monterys Velaryon – a knight and commander of the forces of his house – assured him. “I will make sure no Lannister, sell-sword or gold cloak touches you.”

The man had appointed himself Gendry's protector, and he was in no position to refuse. While he had experience with fighting, it was against mindless wights and their cold masters – not against living men who were able to react and fight much faster then the dead.

While he had tried to exude confidence as the army assembled his nerves were beginning to fail him as the hour grew closer. Once the signal – likely some attack on the walls blocking their entry – was given, he would lead the charge into the breach and straight towards the enemy and their defences.

He wished that he could have seen Arya again. _Wherever you are, I hope you are safe._

* * *

Daenerys urged Drogon higher as she climbed high above the spires of King's Landing, soaring out towards the Blackwater Rush. Up here, in the clouds and on the back of her child she felt as free as any one could; for a moment gone was the pressures of war and the desires of ruling that drove her ever forward. There were no traitors, no scheming and plotting up here. Just herself and her thoughts.

_This is it, she thought. Once I go down there is no going back._ She would bring fire and blood to bear against Cersei and those who stood with her – the pirate lord who killed Rhaegal, the lords of the Westerlands who pledged their swords to her and the sell-swords of the Golden Company who bolstered their defences.

Hovering a moment in the clouds she thought of the future. Of ruling and rebuilding following the necessary destruction that would be inflicted upon the city by herself and her armies. Of the city that her ancestor built. She hoped that Aegon would forgive her for this action, but the fortunes of House Targaryen would be restored today.

Unbidden her thoughts turned to Jon Snow and the threat he posed to her – but she quickly dismissed him from her mind. She had to stay focused; she had to remember who the enemy was for this moment and this moment only – the one who flew the lion banners.

Those who wanted to threaten her reign in other ways would be dealt with as she dealt with Varys. But that was for another day – today, Cersei Lannister would face the full wrath of the dragon's daughter.

She leaned forward, urging Drogon into a dive towards the waiting ironborn fleet.

* * *

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> updates may be slow in coming now, mom broke her wrist so i have to do what I can to help her alongside work. But I will not give up on this story!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoy

Gendry wondered if this was how his father felt during battle.

The Queen's dragon blew an opening in the city walls, he remembered. He also remembered the collective shouts and screams of his men as they surged forward, rushing to meet the defenders who streamed out of the breach.

Yet he did not remember standing where he was now, covered in blood and gore as his war-hammer struck the skull of another gold-cloak, his skull shattering with a sickening crunch. Time seemed to slow around him, and he could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

_It's almost euphoric,_ he thought. _No wonder Robert loved war._

His men were battling through the narrow streets of King's Landing against the wave of City Watch and Golden Company defenders that rose to meet them. Above, he could faintly hear the dragon unleashing its fire upon more enemy positions – already Gendry could see the burning ruins of the city walls to the east of them.

At that moment Gendry parried a thrust from a mercenary's spear, using all of his force to bring his war-mace down on the man's collarbone, crumpling him to the floor with a crash as he let out a wail of agony.

The sound the man's skull made when he crushed it would have been enough to make him vomit were the situation different. But now, at that moment – there was nothing but this battle and the next one after that.

“FORWARD!” he roared, surprised at his own vocal strength. Looking around he saw that the surge of men had lead him to Rhaenys's Hill, where the Street of Silk held the city's many whore-houses and flesh markets.

The passage of time was strange to him now; he could not remember going from the breach at the Old Gate to any of the winding side streets, to where the fighting was now among the brothels. None the less, he could not hesitate; hesitation meant death.

During his battle against the army of the dead, he did not feel any of these emotions. No hot blooded rage or primal fury – why was this different? Perhaps because he was fighting against living beings, not rotted out corpses that only mindlessly obeyed the whims of their supernatural masters.

He had killed before, certainly – but never in battle such as this.

“LORD BARATHEON!” came a shout from his right. His eyes glanced back to see Lord Harman approaching him, his own armor and shield coated in blood. “The enemy forces are starting to break. Many of the gold cloaks are throwing down their spears and running, but Connington's rallied the Golden Company near Flea Bottom.”

A sense of satisfaction washed over him, momentarily breaking him from his frenzy. “Then we almost have the day!” he grinned, “what about Jon's northmen? Has there been any word?”

Uller shook his head. “None. We know they entered the Lion Gate as planned but little else.”

Gendry shrugged. “We press on to the Red Keep as planned then.”

From behind him came a shout as Ser Monterys staggered to a halt a few paces from him. “My lord, I have been trying to keep pace with you yet you have outfought even me!” he exclaimed, “truly you share your father's penchant for battle.”

_Do I_? Gendry could not help but feel a slight fear at that statement. Robert Baratheon had been many things – fearless warrior, drunken lecher, notorious whore-monger – but he had also dedicated parts of his life to destroying an entire family for the crimes of one member. Was that the legacy he left behind?

Either way, it would not be Gendry's. He had built a life of his own; not much of one, but a life that he could be proud of continuing – lord or otherwise.

And that life was not about to end today.

_To Flea Bottom, then._

* * *

“Your father -” Jon Connington cried, raining down a flurry of blows on Gendry's shield, “- took everything from me!”

“My lands!” Another slash.

“My lordship!” Yet another.

“My prince!” He rushed forward with a thrust, sending the young lord staggering.

Around them the streets of Flea Bottom echoed with the sounds of combat. While most of the goldcloaks had fled, throwing down their spears and running for their lives – Jon expected nothing less from the city defenders – he had rallied the surviving Golden Company men into a defensive line around the slum.

Gendry rose to his feet, panting sharply. “Don't you ever shush up?” he grumbled.

Jon laughed. “Not when it comes to my injustices, boy.” He kept his combat stance proper, circling his foe as though a predator preparing for its kill. “If I had slain your father at the Stony Sept, you would never have been born.”

“Your mistake,” he huffed, rushing forward.

Gendry swung his hammer wildly, keeping his shield raised as best he could. Jon raised his shield, parrying the blows; even with his brass hand the strength of the boy's arm sent shards of pain up his arm.

_He had the strength of his father,_ Jon mused. The boy had been legitimized by the dragon queen – who now flew overhead, raining fire down upon the scorpions and their crews – and it was easy to see how the Storm lords had accepted him as easily as they did.

Jon thrust forward, trying to block his continued blows. He used his brass hand to try and knock the mace from his hand, thrusting with his sword toward the boy's gut.

But the boy was smart; he headbutted Jon as hard as he could, sending him stumbling to the cobbled stones with surprise before he could try to brace himself or come up with a counter to the attack. He felt the pain shoot up his face as blood ran from his nose and his arms ached terribly.

Scrambling for his sword Jon pushed to his feet, waiting for the killing blow.

But it did not come; confused, he looked about to find that the boy was gone – a group of Golden Company spear-men had rushed forward, attempting to drive him away from their captain. Panting wildly, Jon spat out some blood as he eased to his feet, stumbling away back toward the outer gate leading to Aegon's Hill.

The remaining gold-cloaks of those that had not run were rallying behind Ser Damon, who was now leading a large host – some two hundred in all, perhaps – forward to into the slums in an attempt to aid their mercenary allies.

“Fight for your city! Fight for your wives and children!” Ser Damon cried, waving his sword in the air as he urged the gold cloaks onward.

Slouching against the wall of the gate, Jon sighed, wiping blood from his face. Is this what he was reduced to? Fleeing like a craven from a boy – granted, a boy with great strength and potential – in the middle of a battle that he had been expecting for some time now?

* * *

“Captain, ser!” came a shout from his right. Egg rushed up beside him, a look of concern painted on his young face. “Do you need help?”

Smiling, Jon waved the boy off. “No, Egg. I am fine...only my pride is wounded.”

Egg nodded, looking back towards the winding streets. “I got an update from the Lion Gate, ser. The dragon blew a great big hole in it for the northmen to enter. General Strickland's dead and those veterans who didn't get hit with the flames are fleeing into the kingswood.”

_Only took this long for Harry's hubris to catch up with him,_ he thought wistfully. “Going outside of the gate was his mistake. I told him as much but did he listen to me? Poor, stupid Harry.”

“What do we do, ser?” Egg looked to him, a fear in his eyes that was new to him.

The sounds of fighting grew closer and closer, the screams of the dead and dying echoing through the cobbles. “Pull back to Aegon's Hill.” he commanded, squeezing the boy's shoulder firmly. “We cannot hold here.”

Egg grasped Jon by the arm and helped him through the gate as it creaked open. Overhead, the roar of the dragon grew loud in his ears, threatening to make them bleed.

Behind them, a surge of retreating sell-swords and gold cloaks alike told Jon that the battle for Flea Bottom was lost.

* * *

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here's my lousy attempt at daenerys's thoughts during the burninating. again I hope you guys enjoy <3

“Move! Move!” shouted one of the men as Jon, Davos and Grey Worm stepped to the head of the northern line. Around him, the northern and Vale troops lined up, arrayed into battle formation with their shields at the ready.

In front of them was the main body of Lannister soldiers, many of whom looked frightened. Jon saw as many of them stole glances to the sky, trying to work out where the Queen was on her dragon. The only sound Jon could hear was the din of moans and screams from the dead and dying elsewhere in the winding streets.

No one said a thing. Jon stared at the enemy force before him, his breaths shallow and quick. A blanket of uncertainty washed over the two armies as they waited for the next move. But what would it be? More fighting or peace?

The battle thus far had been a total rout; with Daenerys blowing a hole in the Lion Gate for them, Jon's forces along with the Unsullied and Dothraki survivors had stormed the city, taking the defenders on the walls by surprise. Many of them had been slaughtered within moments of their entry, caught off guard by the speed of the attack.

The scorpions – weapons of war that could kill the dragons – lay smouldering in ruins all around the city, save for one or two that were placed atop the Red Keep itself. He knew nothing about the fate of the Iron Fleet, but it was assumed destroyed as well. Everything was going according to plan.

Looking over at Grey Worm, Jon saw the cold hatred in his eyes that still lingered there. He knew the eunuch commander would be the most difficult to deal with; his rage and grief at the loss of Missandei was still inflamed. _How would I be if Sansa was cut down by one of these men?_ Jon could sympathize; it would be difficult if not impossible to contain his rage should such an event have occurred.

He recalled Tyrion's words. _If they ring the bells, it's over._

So far there had been no sign of surrender; but in his heart Jon prayed to the old gods and new that the men in front of him would see reason. _Lay down your arms, please. Let this be an end to the fighting, to the war – let there be peace. Somewhere._

_Let me go home to Sansa._

The sound of clattering swords rang like music in his ears as the Lannister soldiers threw them down, accepting their defeat. Many of their faces still were awash in fear, but he also saw relief on a great many. It was likely that these men were farmers, field hands and the like, plucked from their homes in the Westerlands and forced to march in Cersei's army.

It was then that the bells started to ring.

* * *

Drogon roared out as he landed on one of the battlements, the screams of frightened small-folk echoing faintly on the ground. The dragon crouched on the stone, his tail beating against the wall of the city with exhausted frenzy.

Daenerys heard the bells almost at once. Her breathing grew ragged and shallow; she knew that it was over, that Cersei's forces had given in. The losses that they had suffered had put them over the edge, and now the fighting men at least knew that their false queen had been defeated.

Yet instead of feeling joy or relief at this, she found herself glaring to the Red Keep. The seat of Aegon the Conqueror, who's blood ran in her veins. Where Cersei Lannister now sat, with the lick spittle's who called themselves her court.

The same woman who had taken Missandei from her. Her dearest friend, struck down without remorse or pity on the walls of this wretched city. She had been with her since Astapor, and they had promised to break the wheel together – for all people, everywhere.

* * *

_I will never have love here._

Her words to Jon Snow – _or Aegon Targaryen,_ she thought bitterly – echoed in her head. Her own blood, the one man who would help to carry on their family name had rejected her. The people of Westeros – instead of fighting back against a woman like Cersei, had sat idle and allowed her to do so.

The North despised her, with the ice queen Sansa Stark treating her with contempt, even after thousands of her people – the loyal Unsullied and wild but devoted Dothraki – had thrown away their lives for that frozen wasteland.

Even her advisers plotted treason against her. Tyrion Lannister, Varys, all of them.

She offered them peace, security and a life of freedom from chains of all types. Yet the people – those who she had devoted herself to – rejected her. Scorned her, or worse – plotted her downfall with those willing to scheme.

_Let it be fear. Let it burn, Daenerys. It is the blood in your veins – you must be a conqueror, not a peacemaker. These people – the backward and ignorant – understand nothing but violence and brutality._

She sneered, her breathing growing harsh as she felt her body growing hot with anger and bitterness. So many of her loyal people had been thrown away for the liberation of a people who would hate and despise her, just as they had Aegon and the rest of her family.

Winning this battle would not prove her strength to them. No, it would only encourage them to rise up and try their luck with rebellions for independence – another laughable idea. The realm needed one ruler, one with the blood of old Valyria – one with the will and strength to do what is necessary.

_I will prove my strength to them._

Drogon lifted off from the battlements, soaring towards the Red Keep.

_Prove your strength. Let them know fear. It is what they understand._

The smell of fire was like a lover's embrace as she began burning the streets below.

* * *

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a short chapter about cersei. hope you all enjoy!

Cersei felt a sensation she had not experienced in a long time. Since the days that she had been seized by the Faith Militant and paraded naked through the streets in her so-called “walk of atonement”. When the people had thrown rotten food and insults at her, and when she saw the cold glares of her former counsellors waiting at the Red Keep.

Fear.

The dragon queen was burning the city. She watched as the beast carved a swatch of destruction through the winding streets, the flame burning indiscriminately as the great black wings flew without pause.

_But this was not supposed to happen,_ she told herself. The Targaryen woman was weak and obsessed with mercy. She would hold her people back to save as many people as possible, a foolish and ultimately futile strategy.

Opening her mouth to speak she found that words had failed her. The acrid smell of death and destruction – charred flesh and burnt buildings – wafted into the air. She was used to the smell of death, having experienced it from a young age, but this was a whole new sensation of terror.

“Your Grace!” a voice shouted from behind her.

Her eyes spared the slightest glance toward the source, seeing the large figure of Lord Crakehall in the threshold. It was only a moment before she returned to watching the dragon burn her city. _This was not supposed to happen,_ she told herself again. Bewilderment had crept into her mind alongside the growing and gnawing fear.

“Your Grace!” The man's voice echoed again. “The situation is dire. The dragon queen is burning the city – she's already destroyed most of Visenya's Hill and the Street of Silk. The northmen are slaughtering their way through the Street of Steel. Most of our men are dead or have fled. What are your orders?”

With horror Cersei watched as the dragon drew close to the Red Keep, flying mercifully past where she stood and burning parts of the lower structure. She felt the room shake with the sound of distant screams filling her ears.

“What are your orders?” Crakehall asked again.

_What is she doing? The little queen was supposed to be caring and cautious._

* * *

Cersei gripped the window ledge so tightly that her hands went white. “She should not be doing this.” Her thoughts went to her unborn child once more, lingering in her womb. For her children she had destroyed anyone foolish enough to stand against her. 

Robert Baratheon. 

Eddard Stark. 

Robb Stark. 

Margaery Tyrell and that old cunt Olenna. 

How could she be defeated by a young girl with no true experience in war? 

Receiving no answer she felt the heavy steps of Lord Crakehall as he rushed from the room. 

Distant green plumes began to light up the city as Cersei watched, transfixed by the horror and beauty of the scene before her. She knew about the caches of wildfire buried elsewhere, of course – leftovers from the Mad King's reign. 

The dragon fire must have reached into the ground and detonated them, she realized. 

A great crash went up that shook the room, causing Cersei to stumble backward. In a panicked frenzy she thought the building would collapse, but thankfully the shaking lasted only a few terrifying moments. Her heart was racing. 

_I want to live. I want my baby to live._

“The dragon burned Maegor's Holdfast!” shouted a voice from the hallway. 

“It's down in the sea! By the Seven we can't survive this!” said another. 

She heard the wailing of both men and women as they ran past her, shoving out of the way of her Queensguard as they stood motionless before the room. Servants, courtiers and defenders alike were caught up in the terror of the situation. 

_I am Queen. I cannot be afraid._

* * *

“Your Grace?” a voice from behind her. A voice she knew. 

Qyburn. Her loyal Hand. 

“We should go to safety.” he said as she turned to face him, the fear evident in her eyes by the look upon his wizened face. 

Why were her hands shaking? 

He held up a hand, gentle and caring. She took it, uncertain of what was to come – yet she knew that one thing was certain; she had to live for the sake of her baby. She would not let the dragon queen have the satisfaction of that victory. 

* * *

 


	25. Chapter 25

If Jon had been anywhere else at any other time, the scenes of slaughter around him would have made him sick. He was a warrior, a fighter – someone who had killed men in battles dozens of times before. From the Wall to Hardhome to Winterfell – he was a veteran of many conflicts. He knew that innocents die in war; it was an unfortunate reality.

But this was like nothing he had ever experienced.

Walking through the streets of King's Landing as his men rampaged around him, he felt nothing. A stunned malaise had washed over him as he looked this way and that, watching as those bearing his colours looted homes and murdered men and women who took no part in the fighting.

They had rung the bells. It was over.

When Daenerys had begun burning the city streets below, it had been a sign – at least for Grey Worm. It was as if the eunuch commander knew what was she was about to do. That she was not going to stop – that she was going to punish the city with fire and blood.

His men had joined in on the rampage almost at once, gleefully cutting down the soldiers who had surrendered just moments before despite his desperate efforts to hold them back. Jon had not been able to do much in that regard; many of the Lannister soldiers had picked up their weapons and were fighting back, and so he was forced to defend from those who tried to attack him.

Looking up to the sky Jon watched as she continued to fly overhead, the skies almost fully concealed by smoke. Distant explosions of green fire were everywhere as the long-heard of wildfire caches – a legacy of the Mad King – detonated as she went.

Time was slow for him now. He barely was able to comprehend what he was experiencing.

He recalled Ser Rodrik speaking of the sack of King's Landing at the end of Robert's Rebellion, when Tywin Lannister had lead his armies to the gates and butchered the people within after giving false assurance of his loyalty. The old knight had seen the carnage with his own eyes after his father's forces had arrived not long after. 

_Women raped half a hundred times. Babes smashed against walls and stomped on. They spared no one. It was enough to make me sick to my stomach, and I am a soldier who knows what death and war can bring._

Whereas his father's forces had seen the horror inflicted upon the city by the Lannister forces, now the scenes playing out before him was the exact opposite. It was the northmen who were slaughtering, raping and pillaging their way through the city – and it was the Lannisters who were trying to protect the small-folk as they desperately ran for shelter.

His thoughts turned unbidden to Daenerys.

He had believed in her vision.

She wanted to bring a better world for the people of the Seven Kingdoms – something that Westeros desperately needed. He was not foolish or naive enough to be a blind follower of hers, that was to be sure, but Jon genuinely thought her intentions were good.

Jon had wanted to believe that she would be a reasonable ruler like Aegon the Unlikely or Daeron the Good, that she would be able to understand and hear out his negotiations for Northern independence with a clear, logical head.

Yet the woman he'd met on Dragonstone were long gone – replaced with the hot rage of the dragon queen, it would seem. Perhaps it was her true face the whole time.

_She is unworthy of her father's crown. Claim it._

* * *

The dragon reared its ugly head inside of his mind, its savage growl sending a shiver up his spine. Why now? He had to focus – had to come up with a solution. Already he'd killed one of his own men who he caught trying to rape a woman; the Vale knight tried to attack him when he'd pulled him off the girl.

_Why do you deny what you are? You have seen the fruits of her so called leadership. This land, these people – they need a ruler born in flame yet tempered with ice._

His breathing grew shallow as he rounded a corner, staggering into a wall when an explosion of green fire went up just a few streets away.

He had to find Davos – the man looked just as horrified as he had when the men had run off and begun their butchery.

_Leave me alone,_ he told the dragon. It had plagued him before at key moments in the North – and now it dared when she was burning down the city she claimed to want to rule? This was madness; the blood of House Targaryen –  _his blood_ – was dominated by madness. 

_You are the inheritor of a great legacy, boy. You must reach out and take it – not for yourself but for these people. Do you really trust her to rule a kingdom when she is willing to set its capital into ashes? Use your mind._

_Do you think she will stop here? Think of your precious Winterfell._

Jon felt as though he'd been dunked into a frozen lake.

He knew Daenerys did not like Sansa – she despised her, as a matter of fact – and it would be a simple thing for her to take Drogon and fly north, wanting to enact her own sense of “justice”.

The thought filled him with a cold anger. He would not allow anyone – Targaryen or otherwise – to harm Sansa. She had already endured the horrors of House Bolton; he had sworn to protect her before they reclaimed Winterfell.

_No one will harm her,_ he swore. _I will see to it._ He said it more to the dragon then he did himself; he'd left Ghost with her on his march south for that very purpose – but even a direwolf could not hope to defeat a fully grown dragon.

_If you wish to save her, you know what you must do. Reach out and claim what is yours._

What was it Maester Aemon used to say? _Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born._

Jon paused, looking around the row where he now found himself. Wildfire explosions wracked the city, the screams of the dead and dying now filling the air all around him. All around, his men were still on their rampage; killing, raping and looting to their heart's content, unleashing their rage upon the defenceless folk of the city.

This was his work. His doing. He'd believed in the wrong person – the wrong idea – and now he had to set it right. Not just for Sansa, who everything he did was for – no matter what the cost had been or was – but for the people of Westeros.

* * *

Finally he spied Ser Davos, emerging from a building with a look of horror on his face. They locked eyes as the explosions continued all around them. Jon clenched his jaw, knowing what had to come next – but first, they had to get out of the city before an inferno claimed them.

He sheathed Longclaw and turned toward the far-off gate. “We need to fall back!” he shouted, gesturing wildly to the men around him. Thankfully most of them had the same sense as he did as they scrambled to obey.

“Fall back beyond the gate!” he cried, moving through the blood and corpse strewn streets. He turned to a group of frightened small-folk inside the entrance to a home. “Go! Get out of the city!” he shouted before the roof came down upon them.

Soon enough, Northern forces, small-folk and Lannister troops were all moving in one frightened mass back towards the shattered ruins of the Lion Gate. The rapes and slaughter was on hold, at least for now – as survival became paramount.

As he ran Jon thought of Arya – who he knew was here in this hell somewhere. He wanted desperately to turn around and find her, to get her safely out of this conflagration, but there would be no way for him to find her in the chaos around him.

He said another prayer to his father's gods and the Seven, both.

_Please let her live. Let her come home._

* * *

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another two character stories in one, hope you guys like~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to play up euron's use of magical items and stuff as in the books so he has more of his esoteric stuff here as opposed to in the show. i hope it's ok~

Euron laughed despite the pain radiating across his body. “...but I got you! I got you!” he howled, feeling the blood seep across his hands and wash into the water.

“I'm the man who killed Jaime Lannister.”

It had been through sheer force of will that he had survived the destruction of the _Silence_. As expected, the dragon queen had made her approach from the waters, attacking with the sun to help throw off the scorpion's aim; despite their training, the men of the Iron Fleet could do nothing against bad vision.

His ship had been consumed in dragon fire, yet he had managed to survive by leaping over the rails just as the flames licked at the ship's hull. Even now Euron could see the burning remnants of the Iron Fleet off in the distance – yet he felt nothing, even for the loss of his own flagship.

A ship was a ship. It could always be rebuilt – a newer, better version.

Looking down, he grasped the pouch that rested snugly in his shirt's inner pocket and clutched it tight. The Kingslayer had driven him through after a brutal battle – both men had fought like savages and held nothing back.

 _Just as I wanted_ , he smirked. His taunts about Cersei had worked – driving the man into a rage. And even though he had stumbled into the tunnels of the Red Keep believing he'd won, Euron was not about to let himself die at the hands of that blonde sister-fucker.

Opening the pouch into his hand he brought it to where he'd been impaled and pressed it tight to the wound.

Every nerve in his body screamed as he held it there. Euron himself cried out in agony, something he'd not felt in a long time. He retched at the pain as it dug deeper and deeper into his being, now feeling as though his very soul was being ripped apart, hot knives driving through bone and spirit both.

After several minutes – narrowly avoiding falling into the water from his thrashing – the pain began to ebb slightly. Looking down, Euron smiled as he saw the wound had closed fully, leaving a hideous red blemish where it had once been.

Assh'ai shadow ash was a thing of beauty. It was said to take almost a month for a shadow-binder to even prepare a small pinch, let alone a heavy pouch as what he'd demanded. The reagents required were immense – but easy to obtain, given Euron's skill as a sailor.

It was worth its weight in gold – and it had saved his life from an embarrassing end.

Rising from the rocks Euron stumbled to the beach, looking towards where part of the Red Keep had fallen into the sea. It would seem the dragon queen was still burning the city, unleashing the famous rage of her family onto the citizens of that shit pile of a capital.

The loss of his ship was a setback, to be sure – but he would be a fool to keep all of his treasures aboard any vessel. No, his true prizes – the valuables that would carry him forward on his ever growing journey – they were safely stashed away.

All he had to do was get them.

“I'll need a change of clothes, it seems.” he whispered to himself as he started towards the ruins of the city.

* * *

Arya rode the horse all the way to the northern camp, passing the stream of people fleeing towards both it and the kingswood. She saw men, women and children all with hideous burns or wounds on their bodies, some being carried by loved ones while others limped along with whatever strength she had left.

Reaching the camp she hopped from the horse and rushed past the startled sentries. She had to find Jon – she had to know he was alright. Having just barely escaped the city with her own life she had to know that her brother did not die in the flames of the dragon queen's anger.

It had been a hard thing for her to leave Sandor and flee the city. She had wanted revenge against Cersei every day since she'd taken her father's head off. It had consumed her, driven her towards the arms of the Faceless Men. But Sandor was right – he had become consumed by his hatred and revenge, and it had made him a hollow shell of a person.

Still, she hoped that he found the revenge that he desired somewhere in the burning halls of the Red Keep.

“Where is Lord Jon?” she asked a passing guard. “Did he make it out of the city?”

The man looked at her with a raised brow. “What's it to you?” he grumbled.

She wanted to scream at him, to demand that he tell her the truth. But she knew she had to remain calm and think about this logically. _Calm as still water,_ she remembered the words of Syrio Forel; the first lesson he'd taught her, a million years ago.

“I've a message from Lord Baratheon.” she settled on.

The guard nodded behind him. “Aye, he's in the command tent.”

Rushing past the guard Arya made her way to the largest tent, explaining her purpose to the guards at the entrance who nodded her through.

She found Jon and Ser Davos inside, talking over a map of the city – at least, before it was bathed in fire. Much to her surprise she saw Tyrion Lannister there as well, sitting at the table with a blank look upon his face.

Looking up from the map Jon's eyes widened. “Arya! You're alive!” he shouted and within seconds, she was in his arms. He sobbed into her shoulder, his body heaving with pain and anguish so raw that she could feel it through his tightening grip on her shoulders.

Her heart ached for him – given all that he had already done, knowing he had to endure more of the same – and she was glad beyond words that he was at least still alive, having escaped the hellish inferno and collapsing buildings as she did.

Jon looked at her and alarm quickly set in. “You're hurt. I can call for a Maester.” he said, hands now shaking with worry.

Arya smiled, wiping the blood and ash from her face. “I'm fine. It's quite alright.”

“Are you sure?” he repeated; she could hear the tone of relief in his voice all the same.

Nodding, she looked to the map. “You're going back in there, aren't you?”

“We have to.” said Ser Davos grimly.

Jon nodded. “We have to get to the Red Keep. The Queen demands we attend her victory...celebration.”

“Some victory.” she shook her head. “I saw the burn victims flooding here on my way out. It's...gods, Jon, it's awful.”

His face a mixture of relief and sadness, he could only offer a slight bob of his head as words failed him at that moment. She knew that Jon had hoped for the best with Daenerys – that it would be an easy thing to negotiate the freedom of the North with a reasonable ruler – but that had gone up in flames, quite literally.

“I'm going with you.” Arya said, holding up a hand as Jon opened his mouth to protest. “I can't – I won't – allow you to be alone with her. Not after today. How many men will you bring?”

“It is best we keep the northern armies out of the city given the bloodshed they inflicted,” said Davos, “but she is right – we cannot just march in there alone. We don't know the Queen's mind or that of those Unsullied.”

Jon turned to him. “Fifty men. Make sure they are ready.” His face was suddenly hard, his jaw clenched tight. “I would not want anyone else at my side, little sister.”

Davos quickly left the tent, off to prepare the escort.

Jon turned to Tyrion, who still sat motionless next to him. Opening his mouth, he was silenced as the dwarf spoke first, eyes glancing up towards him in the process. “I'm coming too. This...this is my responsibility as much as it is her's.”

Arya clutched Needle's hilt tightly in her hand. She felt the beads of sweat running down her palm as she, Jon and Tyrion stepped out of the tent. Glancing around sharply Arya vowed that no one would hurt her brother – Jon was her blood, her family, dragon queen be damned.

_The pack survives._

* * *

 

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

“I'll find you later.” Tyrion said as he moved off towards the west, the pair of guards trailing behind.

Jon watched him leave in silence a moment before returning to the scenes before him.

King's Landing was gone.

All around him lay bodies; some burnt down to ash, others nothing but bones blackened from soot while a good amount were still whole, having been cut down by one of his men during their rampage through the streets.

The smell was even worse; it was as if someone was frying human flesh right underneath Jon's nose. As he stepped over the bodies and rubble he looked to Davos, who wore the same grim expression that he'd had since this began.

Here and there he spotted survivors; mostly small-folk stumbling through the ruins in states of shock, many of them sporting hideous burns or other disfigurements. They ignored him and his party as they went, more concerned with escaping then with the armed men before them.

What kind of ruler would do this?

The battle – indeed, the war – was over. The men-at-arms of House Lannister had surrendered. None of this was necessary; indeed, he'd been happy that the destruction caused by Drogon had been limited to the scorpions.

Beside him Arya kept his pace, her gaze neutral and impassive. She looked this way and that, her steps quick and sharp. In a way Jon was glad to have her with him; her skills were legendary, given it was her blade that slew the Night King.

A loud roar echoed out over the city. Peering to the sky Jon spotted Drogon flying overhead, his path taking him to the shattered ruins of the Red Keep. Already a Targaryen banner had been draped over one of its crumbling walls, the red and black contrasting with the shattered and charred grey of the landscape.

_Fire and blood_ , Jon mused.

His hand twitched with anticipation; there was a sense of acceptance taking root in his mind now with every shattered cobblestone, corpse or debris that he stepped over or around. There was indeed no way back from what had happened today.

One thing could be done – and one thing only.

Jon knew that Daenerys would not be satisfied with finally taking the Iron Throne. No, she would seek to right the wrongs of the world; wrongs that began with Winterfell and Sansa, who had resisted her authority and submission.

She would seek to reshape Westeros in her image; wiping out those who would not grant her unquestioned loyalty and replace them with those that would. While she believed that her actions were for the benefit of a new, better world, Jon saw it as nothing better then playing the eternal game of thrones as others did; only she had a dragon and they did not.

It did him no pleasure to realize this fact, but Jon would not shy away from what had to be done to protect not only his family, but the millions that called one of the Seven Kingdoms as home. _May the gods forgive me,_ he thought.

Rounding a corner Jon found himself nearly face to face with a squadron of soldiers all bearing Martell and Baratheon colours. At their head was Gendry, who looked at him with a mixture of relief and surprise.

* * *

The lord of the Stormlands seemed unharmed, but his shield and armour were both black with blood and soot. “Jon! Thank the Seven we found you,” he said, gesturing behind him. “we were trying to pick our way back towards the – Arya?”

Arya looked at him with a wave; she was blushing, Jon was already able to tell.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, looking bewildered.

“I came here to kill Cersei.” was her response. She shrugged, looking to the Red Keep. “though it looks like the dragon queen beat me to it.”

Gendry looked back to Jon. “What happened? I thought she was supposed to head for the Red Keep but that dragon just kept burning everything. We had no choice but to fall back – we were near Aegon's Hill but the flames were just too intense, especially with that green fire.”

“Wildfire.” Jon replied, “it seems the attack set off the caches left over from the Mad King's day.”

“She wanted the people to suffer.” Arya pointed out, her foot tapping one of the charred bones. “I suppose surrender was not enough.”

Jon nodded. “We are heading for the Red Keep – the Queen wishes to speak with us. How many men have you?”

“About twenty or so. Why?” Gendry looked over to Arya. “More important, why did you not tell me Arya was here?”

Sighing, Jon looked around the shattered streets. “Because I wanted your mind to be clear for the battle. I am sorry, Gendry – I know you care for her and she for you – but we needed to be focused. I...I suppose I was hopeful that we would have a more intact city to see to.”

He nodded, his face one of understanding. “Makes sense, I suppose. It was rough goings to get here.” Gendry walked over towards Jon and Arya, pausing before them. “Though I do owe her something, in that case.”

Abruptly his free hand went out and snaked around Arya's waist, pulling her in for a deep and passionate kiss.

Jon snorted as Davos gawked at the pair. “I don't mean to interrupt this touching moment, but we're in the middle of a pile of charred bones.” the old knight said, looking mortified. “Maybe we...we should get to the Red Keep first.”

Arya looked embarrassed as she broke off. “Ass!” she shouted, her blush growing even redder.

“Yes, well – um.” Gendry stammered, realization dawning on him. “Lord Harman has most of the men with the prisoners and small-folk back at camp.”

Jon smiled; at least someone was able to find love in this terrible moment. He had to admit that if Sansa were he, he would have done the same thing. Thinking of her in this misery had helped to steady his mind as he grew closer to the Keep.

* * *

The two groups walked in silence for a few moments, approaching the desolate and broken walls of the last gate to the Red Keep. As they did so, Jon spotted a man sitting on a stack of rubble nearest the warped metal of the gate.

“Well done, dragon son.” the man said, offering a sarcastic clap with his remaining hand. “you have won the day! The city is yours, the war won.” he waved about.

His men raised their blades toward the man, but Jon bid them to stand down. He took a few steps forward, eyeing Jon Connington warily. The mercenary captain looked rough. Soot and ash covered most of his face and his armour was dented and stained with dried blood, some of it his own from his still bloodied nose.

“You survived, I see.” he said with a nod. “I figured that you would.”

Connington scoffed as he pulled himself up. “Indeed I did, dragon son. Indeed I did! After your man -” he nodded to Gendry, “-bested my men in Flea Bottom, we fell back toward the keep. It was then that we saw her burning everything. Fire and blood! Mad Aerys would be proud.”

Jon put a hand on Longclaw's hilt. “What about your men?”

“Most of them are dead along with Strickland, but Egg and Griff are leading some of our wounded through the rubble. I bid them leave me here until they get them free.” he replied, pulling off his metal hand and tossing it down. “The fabled Golden Company! More like blackened company now, though. With what, a thousand of us still living?”

“We have food and shelter back at our camp.” Jon offered, gesturing toward his men. “One of my men can escort you there. Sell-sword, Lannister, gold-cloak; it matters not. The battle is over.”

That brought a bitter laugh from Connington. “The battle is over, aye. But what next, I wonder? Do you think that she will be content with ruling over a blackened ruin? She has the Iron Throne, aye – but Aerys had that and he tore the realm apart all the same.”

“Rhaegar tore the realm apart,” Jon sighed. He did not want to debate history with this man. “but the past is done. We must look to the future.”

“I find this so ironic. Rhaegar's own son standing there and insulting his memory.” Connington sighed, slumping his head. “Forgive me, my friend. I would have died with you on the Trident then behold the future we have now.”

Jon shook his head. “Do you think to appeal to me based on your friendship with my so-called 'father'? A man I never knew? A name out of history? I am more focused on saving the realm from a woman who would destroy anyone that would not give her unconditional loyalty!” he shouted, the anger surging through him. “If you wish to wallow in history and pity, then do so. But I have made my choice, Connington.”

“Huh,” he mumbled with a nod. “Just then – for a brief moment! - you sounded like him. So, I ask you – what will you do, dragon son? What does the future hold for Jon Snow?”

“Whatever it must.” Jon replied, looking towards the Red Keep. With that, he motioned for his men to follow.

* * *

“In the name of the one true Queen, Daenerys Targaryen – I sentence you to die.” Grey Worm's voice echoed through the still street. At his feet the half-dozen Lannister soldiers bound on their knees did not react, their faces a blank resignation.

“Grey Worm!” Jon shouted as he rushed over to the eunuch commander. Davos, Gendry and Arya all keeping pace with him in the process, the Stark and Baratheon men slowly marching behind them.

Around them stood a dozen Unsullied, stiff and not moving. _The perfect soldiers_ , Jon mused. It was no wonder that Daenerys used them as the backbone of her army, given their singular mindset and unflinching devotion to their leader.

Sparing a glance to the haggard men awaiting their fate, Jon shook his head. “It's over. These men...they are prisoners. The city is ours.” he explained, feeling as though he were discussing it with a child.

“There's no need for any more killing.” added Gendry. “I mean, I don't see them fighting us still.”

Grey Worm kept his gaze focused on Jon. “It is not over until the Queen's enemies are defeated.”

“How much more defeated do you want them to be?” objected Davos, “they're on their knees...”

“They are breathing.” was his reply, eyes flickering over to the Onion Knight.

Inwardly Jon sighed. He did his best to remain calm on the outside – but it was clear that Daenerys's forces could not be reasoned with. They were focused on revenge; their devotion to her driving them to murder anyone who dared pick up a weapon against her.

“Look around you, friend! We won.” Davos pleaded.

Already he knew what the answer would be before any reply was offered. “I obey my Queen's commands, not yours.” Grey Worm replied, his tone cold and hard.

_And what a victory it was,_ Jon mused bitterly. “And...what are the Queen's commands?” he asked, drawing the eunuch's gaze back towards him.

“Kill all who follow Cersei Lannister.” He gestured to the prisoners, “These are free men. They chose to fight for her.” He moved to draw his dagger from its sheath.

Before he was able to stop himself Jon had reached out and grasped the man's arm as tight as he could. This caused the Unsullied to ready their weapons in an attack posture, spears pointed toward Jon and his people.

In turn the Stark and Baratheon host drew their weapons as the last of his men made their way up to where the standoff unfolded.

“Easy men! Easy!” shouted Davos, appealing for calm. “We...we're all on the same side here.”

Grey Worm glared at Jon, his face contorted into a sneer of contempt.

Jon kept his gaze firm and unblinking as he waited to see who would make the first move. Already the 'allies' were coming to blows; even though his men had rampaged through the city with the eunuchs and the Dothraki, their ideologies and behaviour doomed them to rivalry from the start.

“Call off your men.” Arya demanded as she took her place at Jon's side, Needle out and pointed towards Grey Worm. “We outnumber you, if you didn't notice.”

* * *

A pallor of silence fell over the scene as the only noise came from the rustling wind and crackling of fire. His breathing was heavy in his chest as Jon waited to see what would come next. Would Grey Worm shed blood over something as arbitrary as this? Would he – in his desire to destroy and avenge – set the allies of his Queen against one another?

No one spoke until Jon felt the eunuch relax his grip on the dagger. Turning his head he barked at the Unsullied, the soldiers mercifully exiting their combat stance. “Do not think this will go unnoticed by the Queen.” Grey Worm whispered.

“Good. I welcome the chance to speak with her.” Jon countered, his men finally sheathing their blades.

With that the Unsullied turned and marched away, heading towards the Red Keep with Grey Worm stomping ahead of them. Arya had already unbound the Lannister prisoners, who slowly rose to their feet and eyed Jon carefully.

“Bless you, m'lord.” one of them managed as he wiped at the sweat on his haggard brow.

Jon turned towards them. “The northern encampment has food and shelter for all. One of my men will escort you. No one will harm you, I have given express orders to ensure the safety of all those seeking aid.”

Five of the six officers moved down the street. The sixth fixed him with his aged blue eyes, face shrivelled and blemished with dirt, ash and blood. “We rang the bells. The men were ready to surrender – Lord Brax threw down his blade. Why?”

“I have no answer for you.” he admitted with a sigh, “but rest assured that we...we will make things right.”

Turning towards the Red Keep Jon grasped Longclaw's hilt.

“You ready?” asked Gendry.

He could only nod.

* * *

 


	28. Chapter 28

Jon forced himself up the steps of the Red Keep, turning to face the crowd gathered in the shattered courtyard below.

The two hundred or so Unsullied remained still, their gaze locked blankly ahead as they awaited Daenerys's arrival. Many of them still had blood stains splattered across their armour and weapons, with bits of ash and gore mixed in.

Contrasting the order and discipline of the eunuchs was the fifty or so Dothraki, who cheered and whooped from horseback. Even more so then the Unsullied, the horsemen were splattered in blood and gore. Many of them even carried grim trophies from their kills – iron blades, bits of armour and the like.

A dark shadow soared overhead as Drogon touched down somewhere behind him. Turning his gaze he saw Daenerys strolling casually forward as the beast's great wings flapped and took off, briefly giving her the appearance of having dragon wings herself.

_That is a grim but apt metaphor,_ Jon thought.

She paused to look at him and Gendry as she stepped into the courtyard, the Dothraki and their cheers growing even louder as she did so. Thinking quickly, the pair bowed their heads as she fixed her eyes upon them.

“My lords,” she said with a smile. “well done to you both. I promise that both Winterfell and Storm's End will reap the rewards of the Throne now that the reign of Cersei Lannister has been ended.”

Gendry opened his mouth to speak but Jon quickly elbowed him in the side, silencing him before he could begin.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Jon said, keeping his head bowed.

She then addressed her other forces, speaking in High Valyrian.

His mind was elsewhere as she spoke, her speech unknown to him. Jon focused on the burning ruins of the city laid out before him. Distant screams and sobs could be heard, even above Daenerys's speech. _It was not supposed to be like this._

A grim fatalism had fallen over him as he watched her speak. _There was no other way forward_ , he reasoned to himself. If Jon wanted to ensure that the Seven Kingdoms was able to rebuild from the endless wars that had gripped its recent history, it did not need a ruler who would continue to push for more and more conflict.

He had once believed Daenerys would want peace, having expressed how different she was from the Mad King. How she wanted to break the wheel of oppression and strife and rebuild Westeros under her rule.

_You're just more of the same._ Jon remembered his words to her back on Dragonstone – it was oddly prophetic now. The same war, violence and death that others had brought would be inflicted under her ten-fold, given the power of Drogon at her back.

As she finished speaking Jon spied Tyrion, stepping forward to stand beside her.

“You freed your brother.” she said, eyeing him grimly. “You committed treason.”

He eyed her with a mixture of disdain and anger. “I freed my brother.” he agreed, turning to face her now. “and you slaughtered a city.”

Jon watched as he took the Hand badge from his breast and threw it down the steps, causing the Unsullied – who were banging their spears into the ground – to stop and affix their gaze upon him.

Her gaze was almost venomous as she sneered, squeezing her hands into fists. Daenerys barked out a command in Valyrian and a group of Unsullied fell in around Tyrion. She then turned and began walking towards the Red Keep, her newest prisoner in tow.

* * *

Watching them depart Jon nodded to himself, looking to Gendry and Arya. “You two remain here. I will need you when the time is right.” he said, his voice now taking on a commanding tone.

Turning to Davos he gestured towards the Stark and Baratheon forces, who remained off to the side near the shattered walls of the courtyard. “I need you with me, Davos. When I give you the signal I need you to carry out my instructions to the letter. Tell the serjeants as much.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Jon clenched his jaw, feeling the muscles ache as he did so. “Disarm and detain the Unsullied and Dothraki. If they will not surrender...do what you must do to ensure our people take control of the Red Keep.”

“I'm coming with you.” Arya said before Davos had a chance to reply. “It is that simple.”

“No!” Gendry hissed, grasping Arya's shoulder. “Jon's right. He has to do this.”

Davos looked surprised. “Are you sure this is the only way?” he asked, gazing down towards the Queen's forces. “I don't think they will give up without a fight, knowing what we do of their...enthusiasm.”

“I wish there were another solution.” Jon sighed. “But after today do you...do you honestly think that she will be the best ruler for Westeros? Gendry – your men will assist mine when the time comes, yes?”

“You can count on me.” he replied, still gripping Arya's shoulder.

Davos rushed down the steps, heading towards the northern forces. Jon turned around to Arya. “I need you here, little sister.” he whispered, kneeling before her. “I have to do this. She knows...she knows who I am. It is only right I end this – given my belief in her cause up to this point.”

She hugged him tightly, wrenching herself free of Gendry's grasp. “But – the dragon, Jon. What if -”

He shook his head. “Don't worry about that. Please.”

Returning to his feet he looked towards his forces as Davos returned to his side. “I told the serjeants. They are with you.” he nodded.

* * *

Jon moved off, leaving Gendry and Arya to watch as he walked towards the shattered entrance to the Red Keep, with Davos at his side.

_I do this for the realm_ , he told himself. _Not for me. Not for the dragon._

That part was at least mostly true. He did this for Sansa as much as he did for the realm. The knot in his chest continued to tighten with every step. This may mean his death – incinerated by dragon fire as so many thousands of others had been.

_But it would mean that Sansa could live. The North would be free._

That made it worthwhile.

* * *

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i cut out a lot of the romancey "shes mcqueen" bits from this. hope you guys enjoy!

Pausing at the doors to the throne room Jon and Davos stared ahead silently, neither man saying anything – the only sounds between them being the slow and rhythmic breathing coming from their mouths.

Daenerys stood at the Iron Throne itself, her hand running along the mangled blades of its back. She was seemingly oblivious to the state of the room itself; most of the roof was gone, with shattered columns and debris laying everywhere.

Jon spied several bodies buried under rubble or impaled – servants, by the looks of them.

“Stay out of sight.” he whispered to Davos, who gave him a solemn nod. “When you see the signal get back to the courtyard and begin the next phase. No matter what happens, our people must have control of the Red Keep when the dust settles.”

“What will you signal with?” he asked, looking back towards Daenerys.

Taking a few steps forward Jon grasped Longclaw's hilt so tight his hand ached. “You will know, old friend. You will know.”

* * *

Every step forward Jon felt his legs growing harder, as though he were encased in rock. Part of him wanted to turn back, to flee the castle and the city and the south itself, to hide away in Winterfell with Sansa and forget all about this nonsense.

But how could he do that? How could he flee and turn a blind eye to the instability that Daenerys represented? Even though she was his aunt by blood, her actions could not – should not – be rewarded by any soul with a fibre of morality within them.

Ash continued to rain down into the room, coating him with a thin sheen as he grew closer. He noted her smile as she saw him, turning her gaze from the chair at last.

“When I was a girl, my brother told me it was made with a thousand swords from Aegon's fallen enemies.” she said, her voice almost childlike in its wonder. “What do a thousand swords look like in the mind of a little girl who cannot count to twenty?”

She took a few steps down from the throne, smiling the whole way. Ash continued to rain down upon her yet she paid it no mind. “I imagined a...a mountain of swords too high to climb. So many fallen enemies that you could only see the soles of Aegon's feet.”

It was almost comical to him that she retained such a gleeful attitude in the face of the devastation around them. Jon wanted to pinch himself, thinking this was some kind of twisted dream that he would wake from. “I saw them executing Lannister prisoners in the street.” he announced, “they said they were acting on your orders.”

Her face grew hard as the smile faded. “It was necessary.”

Laughter – harsh and indignant – was his response. Anger began to bubble inside him. “Necessary? Have you been down there? Have you seen?!” he shook his head, “Children! Little children, BURNED!”

“I tried to make peace with Cersei.” Daenerys replied, her eyes gazing away from his own stony expression. “She used their innocence as a weapon against me. She...she thought it would cripple me.”

Jon felt almost taken aback by her flippant response. It was something he would expect from savages like the Lord of Bones or Ramsay Bolton. “And Tyrion?” he asked, trying to shake the distaste from his mind. Despite the dwarf's constant mistakes and unshakable faith in Daenerys, he was still a man Jon respected – having learned one of the few things that remained with him at their first meeting in Winterfell so many years ago.

_Never forget what you are as the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used to hurt you._

“He conspired behind my back with my enemies. How have you treated people who have done the same to you?” she asked, eyes meeting his own. “Even when it broke your heart?”

Jon thought of Olly, the boy who he'd hung along with the rest of the Watch mutineers that killed him. He was a boy who had lost everything – his parents, his home, his friends – to the same people Jon had forced him to make peace with. It was little wonder that he had gone along with Ser Aliser's plan for revenge.

_Olly never murdered thousands of innocents – or had a dragon. He was a boy with no real chance at a decent life._ It was not something he would do again; the swinging body of the boy was one of the constants that haunted Jon to this day. 

“Forgive him.” he whispered, the sadness evident in his voice. _Do what I could not at that time._

Daenerys shook her head. “I can't.”

“You can. You can forgive them, you can forgive all of them – help them see that they made a mistake.” he pleaded. Why was he saying this? Jon felt himself growing even more uneasy. He knew what he had to do, yes – but part of him was still trying to find a way to bring her back, to help her see reason that she had abandoned.

_I don't want this. I never have._

For a brief moment, she looked as though she would cry. Her face grew red as she pondered his words. “We...we can't hide behind small mercies. The world we need won't be built by men loyal to the world we have.” 

_There is no turning back, Jon. No redemption for this._ “The world we need is a world of mercy. It...it has to be!” 

“And it will be!” she smiled, stepping to within arm's length. “It...it's not easy to see something that has never been before. A good world.” She rested a hand on his chest, the touch making Jon's blood run cold. 

“How do you know?” he asked, “how do you know it will be good?” He thought of Sansa – would her death be part of a good world? Would the destruction of Winterfell be part of this good world that Daenerys wanted? 

The childlike smile had returned to her face. “Because I know what is good.” she said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Jon shook his head. “What about everyone else? Everyone who thinks that they know what is good?”  _People like me,_ he thought. _What happens to the rest of us who don't share your vision?_

“They don't get to choose.” she beamed, running her free hand across his cheek. “I...I want you to be with me. Build this new world with me. It is what we have known, what we have always known. Ever since you were a little boy growing up with a bastard's name, and I was a little girl who could not count to twenty. We are the last dragons – the inheritors of this new world. I need you, Jon. Break the wheel with me.” 

He had seen what a broken wheel looked like. It was something he wanted no part in. “You...you are the queen.” he whispered, his body fighting no longer. 

In one swift motion he plunged the dagger into her heart. 

* * *

Davos could not hear what the pair were saying, but the way that the Queen had carried herself in among the devastation of the throne room was something that sent a chill up his spine. She was so focused on that damned chair that it had consumed her, with nothing standing in the way of her goal – not even the people of King's Landing. 

It was something he had once seen happen to Stannis – a man he had believed in just as Jon had believed in Daenerys. 

So it was not a surprise when he saw Jon drive the dagger into her heart. His own breathing stopped as he watched her slump to the ground, Jon gently cradling her body as she clutched at the wound where his blade had been. 

Jon looked at him now, tears welling in his eyes.  _Poor lad,_ Davos reasoned.  _Seven have mercy on him._

“Now, Davos! Go!” he shouted as he closed her eyes for good. 

Even for someone as old as he was, the Onion Knight ran with a speed he did not know he had. His knees screamed for him to stop as sweat ran down his brow, but he dashed through the ruins of the Red Keep, traversing the same way that he and Jon had come – thankfully passing a few Unsullied who paid him no mind – before he ended up outside, the courtyard only a few moments away. 

A loud and agonized roar echoed around him as he ran once again, even as every muscle rebelled inside of him. 

Within a few more pained seconds he had made it to where Gendry, Arya and the rest waited.

“Now!” he cried, drawing his blade. He had done it – his body would punish him later if he survived this day.

* * *

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, work is kicking my butt again. hope you guys like and have a happy new year!!

Jon's hand still shook violently as he exited the throne room, the dagger trembling in his grasp.

His heart felt as though it would burst, both from sadness and fear – the encounter with Drogon, he all but accepted when the beast flew into the room, would end in his death. Yet it had been an easy thing to accept; even if he were to perish in the dragon's flame, Sansa and the North would still be free.

As he walked down the steps he stumbled into the wall, hyperventilating as the shock of what he had just done struck him. No only had he slain the woman he'd pledged fealty to – a woman he'd wanted to help build a better world, at first – he had endured the rage and sorrow of her dragon and lived to tell the tale.

The Iron Throne was now a pile of molten slag, but so be it. A chair does not make a kingdom, after all.

_I am a kinslayer_ , he told himself with rising horror. What made him any different now then so many of the other men in history that had taken the lives of kin? All that she was, Daenerys was his aunt by blood.

_No man is as accursed as the kinslayer,_ he recalled the words of Maester Luwin. He wondered how the world would see him now – would he be reviled? Feared? Shunned? It mattered little – he was a bastard for all intents and purposes, and the scion of a cursed bloodline.

The far off sounds of fighting filled his ears; it seemed that Davos had made it to the northern forces. With any luck they would be able to drive off the last of Daenerys's loyalists and take control of the ruins.

_If not,_ he mused, _at least I will die sword in hand._

Pushing himself off the wall he continued on, staggering his way over and around the debris and corpses littering the hallway. At least this business was done, and he could return home now to Sansa, to where he belonged -

_No_ , the dragon roared. _You know what must be done now._

“Leave me alone!” Jon cried, passing down another flight of stairs. He was sick of the voice, of its constant taunts and demands – he wanted it gone and silenced. In a way, he thought that removing Daenerys as a threat would sate the beast.

He knew what it wanted. To rule, of course.

Yet Jon had no interest at all in such a prospect – it was in fact one of the most terrifying things that he could imagine save for death by dragon-fire or the bloody flux. Even though it was a maddening thought within his mind, there was a certain...truth to it that he could not deny.

Before a new monarch can be chosen, someone must hold the city and the realm together. Lord Protector, Jon recalled his lessons. In the event of a monarch's death without a true heir, the Lords Paramount would travel to King's Landing and select a ruler from among candidates.

A Grand Council, he remembered the formal name. It had been done before – and it seemed it would need to be done now. As the man with the largest allied army within the city – what was left of it – it would fall to him to maintain order and ensure a peaceful transition as much as possible.

Reaching the doors to the inner courtyard he saw the bodies of the Unsullied guards sprawled along the corridor. The sounds of fighting grew louder with every step and his hand continued to shake violently, the dagger now almost vibrating as he walked.

_Kill the boy and let the man be born._ Maester Aemon's words filled his ears as he stepped into the outside air. The realm needed a stable and peaceful transition to a new ruler – and like it was not, Jon was the only man who be able to ensure that was done.

His father had once served as Hand to Robert Baratheon – it was his job to ensure a peaceful and prosperous realm, though under a different set of circumstances. Yet the same forces that had taken Eddard Stark's head were now gone, and Jon would need to hold together a realm with no ruler while it selected one from among its own ranks.

* * *

Reaching the halfway point to the outer courtyard, Jon spotted a soldier wearing Stark colours rushing up to him. The man saluted crisply, his armour stained with blood. “M'lord, Ser Davos gave the signal. We've driven the eunuchs out of the courtyard as ordered.” he said with a nod.

“Good. Grey Worm?” Jon asked. The Unsullied's commander would be a problem; he would fight until his dying breath.

The man shook his head. “Not sure, m'lord. Ser Davos is sending some of us to clear the rest of the Keep, if it please you.”

“Go to the western hall and release Lord Tyrion.” he commanded as he continued his walk through the courtyard. Several more Stark soldiers rushed by, shouting orders back and forth.

_I will do this. I have to do this._

* * *

The scene in the outer yard of the Red Keep was in stark contrast to what it was when Jon and Davos entered the castle. In place of cheering Dothraki and the silent conquest of the Unsullied there were dozens of bodies, many of them belonging to Daenerys's forces.

“Jon!” shouted Gendry as he raced up the steps, his war-hammer covered in bits of blood and gore. “It's done, like you said.”

At his side came Arya, who sighed with relief; she hugged him tightly, fingers digging into his skin. The sensation was warm against his body, with a wave of calm rushing over him as he felt safe once more – back in the arms of loved ones and friends.

With his trembling free hand he wiped the blood from the dagger before sheathing it back into its scabbard. “Grey Worm?” he asked, placing a kiss on the top of Arya's head.

Davos – appearing once again at his side – gestured towards the south. “He escaped into the city with about fifty or so Unsullied. I've got some of our men poking about to try and flush him out, if it please you.”

“Pull them back, Davos.” Jon took a few steps forward. “He will have no choice but to come to us. More over, I will not risk the lives of our men when it is me he will want to face.”

“Most of them horselords already fled towards the docks.” Gendry added, “they were more interested in the dragon then in us. It was just the Unsullied we had to worry about.”

The Dothraki will be an issue, he knew. The horsemen could not simply be allowed to rampage throughout Westeros; without Daenerys to lead them and keep their impulses of pillage and violence in line, they would be a greater scourge to the land then any native army.

“Cut them off and keep them penned there.” Jon said – no, ordered. He felt his voice growing hard and authoritative, with a firmness that he did not know he possessed. _Kill the boy and let the man be born._ Until a new monarch was selected, for good or for ill he was in command of ensuring the lives of thousands of people – innocents who had nothing to do with war or politics.

“What now, m'lord?” asked Davos. The eyes of all three fixed upon him.

“Fetch Maester Smitherman.” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Tell him that the Lord Protector needs his fastest birds.”

* * *

 


	31. Chapter 31

Sansa read the message once more, her free hand stroking Ghost's soft fur as the wolf lay at her side. “You do not need to provide so many men, Lord Reed.” she said, putting the scroll down on her desk. “however, The Neck is perhaps the only region of the North still untouched from conflict.”

“You need not tell me, my lady.” The Lord of the Neck shook his head with a smile. “The crannogmen of the Neck are sworn to House Stark as any other man of the North is. I am only sorry that two thousand warrior is the best we could muster.”

“It will be enough.” she assured him, leaning back in her chair with a long sigh. Since the arrival of the raven from King's Landing three days past, Sansa had hardly slept or ate. Her mind was a constant state of anxiety and fear – what had transpired down south? What was happening in the capital?

Lord Reed reached a gnarled hand across the desk and squeezed her own. “You are worried for him, my lady – I completely understand. But, I promise that we will bring Lord Jon home safe and sound, no matter what may come.”

_Jon._

Sansa missed him with all of her heart. His absence was a gnawing hunger at her mind, with flashes of him appearing all over the castle in both her waking hours and dreams. Even with Ghost at her side, it only served to make her miss him that much more.

Even still she knew that he had to go, to fight in the Dragon Queen's war. If only to ensure the strongest negotiation platform for the North following Cersei's overthrow. But with this message, she knew, it changed everything.

It only made her heart ache more, knowing as little as she did. Jon had not responded to her repeated ravens sent to the capital, and she knew that it was likely that in the chaos of the new administration they were never to be read by his eyes.

Sansa felt a primal sense of fear. With Jon down in the capital – the rat's nest that it was, full to bursting with those willing to kill for even the slightest hint of power – it made him vulnerable. Even a lofty position as Lord Protector would not serve to help keep him safe if he should make enemies with the wrong persons.

She picked up the scroll again and read its message, the words still working their way into her mind.

 

 

> _Queen Daenerys Targaryen is dead._
> 
> _The capital is now under the command of Houses Stark, Baratheon and Martell._
> 
> _As a result of the succession crisis a Grand Council of the realm is hereby called. All major high lords and ladies will travel at once to King's Landing to select a new ruler to represent the Seven Kingdoms in its entirety._
> 
> _Until the selection is completed JON SNOW shall serve as Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms._
> 
> _Aid and wagons of foodstuffs, medicine and other goods are desperately needed._
> 
> _Signed,_
> 
> _Jon Snow_
> 
> _Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms_

 

“Bran, has there been anything?” she asked, turning to where he sat at the fireplace, his face a mess of worry. “From your visions.”

He turned to face her, frowning. “No.” he sighed, “since the Night King's defeat, my...my visions are less and less now. It takes more energy to see less, as it was. I think that the Others were the only things keeping me and the three-eyed raven linked, and with them destroyed...I'm sorry, Sansa.”

She smiled at him. “You've nothing to apologize for. I am just glad to have you back, little brother.”

“I have named Edwyle Marsh as Regent of the Neck until our return.” Lord Howland said, turning his eyes to Meera, where she knelt at Bran's side. “I will not forbid my daughter from travelling with us, even if only to support Lord Brandon.”

“Thank you, father. Truly.” she said, smiling up at him. In response Bran squeezed her hand tight, stroking her skin with his thumb. “No offence is intended to Lady Sansa, but – I would rather go with Bran if he insists on this journey.”

Bran had insisted – no, demanded – that he accompany the army south. Sansa would not deny him that – he wanted to go and support Jon in his new role as Lord Protector. “None intended, Meera.” she said quickly, her hand now resting in front of Ghost's face as the big wolf licked it affectionately.

* * *

A scuffle at the door drew Ghost to his feet, growling warily. After a few moments the door flew open, the booming laugh of Tormund Giantsbane echoing into the room as Ser Brienne followed right behind, an exasperated look on her face as she grabbed his arm.

“My Lady, I told him to remain outside but -” she began angrily.

“- but I said that I was summoned by the wolf queen herself, har!” Tormund grinned at her. “As much as I want to spend my time with the big woman, anything concerns my baby crow demands me full attention.”

Sansa laughed. “I invited Tormund and the other free folk to Winterfell to discuss the situation with Jon.” she gestured to Lord Howland. “Tormund, this is Lord Howland Reed of the Neck. Lord Reed, Tormund Giantsbane – one of the leaders of the Free Folk.”

“Leader? Har!” Tormund grinned, offering the crannogman a nod. “One of them bog fellows, aye? Even we've heard of you all the way up North! Deadly with a bow.”

The older man rolled his eyes with playful annoyance. “Were I younger, I would be happy to demonstrate my proficiency. Alas, my old bones are not as strong as they once were.”

“I got the story from the crow what read the scroll. Jon needs us?” the wildling leader sat down on the nearest chair, pulling it up to the desk. “As much as I would rather head back north and help with the settlements, if he needs us then he's got us. Without Jon Snow there would be no free folk left to start again.”

It was touching to see how Jon inspired such loyalty in the wildlings, Sansa mused.

He was a natural leader of men; risking his own life time and time again for the sake of the realm and family both. Now, with the war finally over it was time for him to rest.

More over, she wanted – needed – him at her side once again. Gone were the days of foolish dreams of knights and maidens, but Sansa felt Jon was the closest thing to a knight and hero of her youth as anyone could be. She loved him – and he loved her. It was almost too perfect, and she constantly expected some bad news or ill event to befall them.

Yet nothing did.

“Sansa?” Bran said, pulling her from her thoughts. “Something that worries me is the result of this Council. It's definitely possible that they will choose Jon as King, so as to see a continuation of the Targaryen dynasty.”

She had already thought of such a thing, even if she did not wish to admit it. “I know.” she said simply, “the thought...well, it has always been in my mind since we received the raven.”

“He should just tell 'em to fuck off!” Tormund snickered, “I mean, not like they can force him to be their king, can they? No offence to anyone here, but you kneelers have squeezed that poor boy for everything.”

_A sad but true statement, Tormund._

“It doesn't matter, though!” he said, beating a fist over his chest. “If Jon Snow needs us, then the free folk will answer! I've got the fifty meanest and ugliest of us ready to ride with you, Lady Stark.”

Sansa smiled. “The Free Folk are more then welcome to travel with us. I dare say that any number of you will be of great help in King's Landing.”

* * *

The courtyard was abuzz with activity as people rushed about; stable-boys and grooms leading horses and saddling them, soldiers running weapons this way and that, and other peasants helping to load wagons full of food and herbs.

Lord Reed's two thousand strong host waited outside the walls, their own wagons and horses ready and eager to go. Sansa and her party need only join them; she had decided on a small party of fifty men at arms as an escort, lead by Ser Brienne, followed by Tormund and his free folk.

It would not be the largest army marching to King's Landing, but it would help to showcase that Jon had friends who were ready to defend him after all that he had done – and continued to do – in the name of House Stark.

Sansa turned to Bran, who sat at her side. “Are you ready?” she asked, reaching out a hand.

Bran smiled, taking it and giving it a tight squeeze.

Satisfied, she turned to her left to where Ser Brienne stood watch. “I am sure you are looking forward to seeing your father again, Brienne?” It had been a rare moment of happiness for the knight when the raven from Lord Selwyn had arrived; Sansa had never seen her protector shed tears as she had that day.

“Yes, my lady. Though I can assure you that despite my...personal involvement...in this, I will command our men to fulfill their duties with the same standards as I always have.” she said, the hint of a smile playing at her lips all the same.

* * *

“Ah! Lady Sansa!” A voice called out from behind. Lord Yohn Royce stopped before her, bowing respectfully.

Sansa turned and offered him a nod. “Lord Royce. I take it you will be needed with Lord Robin travelling to the capital?” she asked politely. Her cousin – in his capacity as Lord of the Vale – would be attending the Great Council as she would, and it would behoove such a young an inexperienced ruler to have experienced men like Royce at his side.

“Indeed, my lady. Lady Waynwood's raven all but confirmed it. Though, if it please – I would prefer to ride with you until we reach the Riverlands. I plan to meet Lord Robin's host just after we cross the Twins.” he said, a brief scowl passing over his lips. “I would ride to meet him with my escort, but I am afraid the hill tribes are still aggressive and bold, thanks to our Lannister friends arming them.”

She hadn't thought of the Vale forces in some time; her mind was too preoccupied with Jon.

It would make sense for the Stark and Arryn armies to ride together – she and Robin could discuss matters related to their arrival. Or, at the very least, she could discuss it with his advisers. “I would be honoured to ride with you, my lord. My father always spoke highly of you and House Royce.”

“Ghost! Come here.” Bran shouted as the wolf trotted up to the group. “We are going to see Jon. I hope you're excited.” he whispered, rubbing his head affectionately.

Sansa laughed as the direwolf's ears perked up at Jon's name. It was clear he missed him as much as she did.

“I wonder what happened down there.” Royce said to no one in particular. “Clearly the siege did not go as the dragon queen planned.”

It made her feel somewhat guilty at having expressed a silent relief at the news of Daenerys's demise, knowing that she would likely make for a poor sovereign. Jon had disagreed – somewhat, at least – but she knew he felt the same. Even still, the only way to avoid a war the North could not afford was to side with her and hope for a good ending at the negotiating table.

_No army can survive a dragon, especially not ours._

“It matters not,” she said to Royce, “all that does matter is that we must choose another monarch for the Seven Kingdoms.”

Scoffing, Royce put his hands on his hips. “I hope for a more stable kingdom, my lady. For both of our sake – since the death of King Robert, the realm has only known war and chaos. It will be nice to not see half the land a scorched ruin for a change.”

“My lady, the horses are ready.” Brienne chimed in, gesturing towards the gates.

Sansa turned back to Bran and Meera. “Lord Royce will be joining us. I trust no objections will be had?”

Bran smiled at the man. “None at all, my lord. Winterfell owes you a debt we will never be able to repay.”

“Nonsense!” Royce chuckled, “It is my honour to help ensure the survival of one of Runestone's oldest and dearest allies. Now, my friends of Stark – let us go choose a new king!”

* * *

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the record the reason the bodies are in barrels of wine is to help preserve them for the travel, sorry for any confusion. 
> 
> happy new year!!!

Arya placed the blood soaked helmets and Dothraki braids on the table. “Another half-dozen near the Mud Gate.” she said with a shrug, “Still no sign of Grey Worm, but I'll keep looking.”

Jon nodded, the headache increasing in its intensity. Every day without news of the Unsullied commander's death or appearance was another day that he had to worry – as if worry was in short supply, of which it was not.

On top of the remaining soldiers of Daenerys's army lurking within the city, he also was dealing with trying to manage the very limited supplies that the army found themselves with. Thanks to Prince Quentyn, they had been able to stretch food stores for a while, even allowing for some aid to be given to the many wounded small-folk now sheltering outside of the city.

“Scouts reported movement on the Kingsroad coming our way.” Davos added, trying to be optimistic. “Tully banners. They have a host with them – at least a thousand strong, with quite a lot of wagons.”

“Good.” Jon felt a bit of relief, though his headache still made his head feel as though it were being squeezed tight. “How long until they arrive?”

Davos tapped on the map laid out before them. “Perhaps three or four days, depending on how fast they march.”

“Arya.” Jon said, looking up at his little sister. “Please, be careful. You don't...don't have to fight Grey Worm. Just give him my offer – single combat, him versus me. This way we can end this with no more lives lost.”

It was risky, but Jon knew he had to bring the eunuch out of hiding before he decided to turn his anger and rage upon the people still inside the city. In the back of his mind, however, Jon felt a sense of desire – he wanted to face the man down, to put an end to the shell of rage and cruelty that he had become.

She smiled at him, squeezing his hand. “It's more then I would give a sad shit like that. But – you're the Lord Protector.” she teased.

From Jon's right, Prince Quentyn fidgeted restlessly in his seat. “I hate to be a bother, but when will we move from this tent and into a more...solid structure? As Lord Protector, you need to be in an established location for when the lords arrive for the Grand Council.”

“He's right, Jon.” Davos said, taking his seat to the left. “When the lords begin to show up, we need to present you as a legitimate Lord Protector. A man who is sitting in a tent with a map and a scroll...well, it does not add well to appearances. Trust me, I should know.”

Jon tapped on the map with a finger. “Where, then? Most of the major buildings are destroyed or in so many pieces they may as well be.” The argument had merit, of course – but at this point, he was far too busy with trying to maintain the shattered remains of the Iron Throne to worry about appearances.

“Parts of the Red Keep are still intact,” Quentyn pointed out, “we could use the old office of the King's Hand for your seat when they arrive.”

“It's not a bad idea.” Davos added, “our men have cleared most of the bodies out of the area and the damage seems to not be as bad as the rest of the castle. Gendry and his men can provide protection for all of the arriving lords.”

Jon looked thoughtful. “Fine. But I am still keeping the northern forces out of the city and away from the small-folk. I do not want a repeat of what happened, nor would it do any good to have the people protected by the same ones that murdered and raped their loved ones not long ago.”

A scuffle from outside the tent caught the ear of the attendees. One of Jon's guards entered, pulling a manacled man in from behind him.

“Pardon, Lord Protector.” he saluted, gesturing to the prisoner. “We found this one trying to leave the city with a wagon full of gold.”

It was strange, to be sure – but this would not be the first case of thievery that had been experienced so far. “And?”

The guard took out a scroll. “The gold was from Highgarden.”

* * *

That got everyone's attention. The seat of House Tyrell had fallen to the Lannisters some time ago, who had sacked the city and taken most – if not all – of its gold supply in the process. How this man would be able to get his hands on such a valuable commodity was certainly unusual.

“He also had this.” the guard held out the scroll. Jon unfurled it and began to read aloud.

“Let it be known that the bearer of this note, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, is appointed a lawful agent of the rightful monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen Cersei of House Lannister.” Jon looked up at the man, who wore an annoyed look.

“I worked for Cersei, aye. But I knew which way the winds were blowing – no one can stand up to fire-breathing dragons, so I hedged my bets.” Bronn said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jon eyed the man carefully. “In this case, hedging your bets means leaving the city with all of the pillaged gold you can carry, I assume.”

Bronn shrugged. “I had to get out before the flames ate it all, and besides – I have to be alive to collect what I'm owed.”

“And what is it you are owed, exactly?” Prince Quentyn asked, looking somewhat bemused.

“I was promised a lordship and a castle and a highborn beauty for a wife. That's why I've done so much work for the golden-haired shits for the past few years.” Bronn rolled his eyes, “So far, it's got me some gold and a knighthood, but nothing else.”

Jon was not impressed. “And what lordship was promised to you, then?” _This aught to be good,_ he mused _._ With the realm in chaos, it would be only natural for unsavoury types like this Bronn fellow to try and take advantage of the present situation.

“Cersei promised me Riverrun, though I doubt she'll give it to me now.” he sighed.

“We can always ask her. The Queen is resting in a barrel of wine in one of the other tents.” Jon quipped sarcastically. “I believe the Kingslayer is in the barrel next to her.”

Bronn's face grew concerned. “Both of 'em, dead? Shite....well, what about the dwarf? He knows me.”

“Bring Lord Tyrion here, please.” Davos asked the guard, who stepped out of the tent.

His headache throbbed with a renewed vengeance. “If you are lying, I promise you will be the first public execution during my reign as Lord Protector.”

Within a moment the guard was back, with Tyrion waddling into the tent behind him. Jon noted that he still looked rough; his face was still pale and stained with dirt and tears from where he had mourned his dead siblings. “What did you need?” he asked quietly.

“This man says he knows you.” Davos gestured to Bronn.

Tyrion looked surprised as he gazed at the sell-sword. “Ser Bronn – here to collect on your owings, I assume.” he allowed himself a small chuckle. “Yes, I can attest to knowing this man. He has served me and House Lannister in the past.”

Jon nodded. “Unshackle him.” he told the guard.

“Don't forget what I'm owed, dwarf.” Bronn said as he turned to leave.

“One thing. The gold you are carrying is now the property of the crown. Given that there is no crown at the moment, it falls to the Lord Protector.” Jon said with a sinister smile, “as Lord Protector, the gold you have stolen will be put to use in rebuilding the city – in case you haven't noticed, King's Landing is in a sorry state.”

The man opened his mouth to protest, but Tyrion's sharp gaze made him think twice about it.

As he took a seat at the table, Jon turned to the new Lord of Casterly Rock. “Where did you find that one?” he asked with confusion.

“He has a long history of service with me.” he explained, “in fact, the first time we fought together was when Lady Catelyn 'arrested' me and took me to the Vale. Bronn was one of the sell-swords who volunteered his service.”

Jon shook his head. “And now he expects to be granted land and title, just like that?” He tapped at the edge of the table, where a pile of scrolls – both opened and unopened – lay strewn about. “Already I have lords sending ravens asking for aid in settling their existing conflicts at the council.”

Tyrion smiled, raising his hands in front of him. “I already have something in mind. After the battle at the Blackwater, Bronn was betrothed to Lady Lollys of House Stokeworth. The match was broken by my dear sister not long after, but I am to understand that she remains unwed.”

“How would that get him a lordship?” asked Davos, “If I remember right, Lollys is the second born of the house.”

As the men around him talked in circles about the issue of Bronn's entitlement, Jon's mind went elsewhere. He went north, back to Winterfell – to Sansa. His urge to flee this mess, abandon the paltry attempt he made at ruling, only grew by the day.

He still felt a wave of guilt for his actions, even though he knew they were necessary. Daenerys had to die to ensure a world of peace. She would not have allowed any one a chance to rule themselves – not without accepting her will and authority.

In a dark way, it reminded him of his lessons from Maester Luwin about the Valyrians; they believed that due to the powers of dragons and blood magic, the world was theirs for the taking. _That did not work out so well for them_ , he mused.

Visiting the camps – where the ragged and tattered small-folk survivors from the city now lived – was a sobering experience for him. Everywhere he looked he saw those who had fallen victim to the Targaryen madness.

What kind of world would emerge from the bones of this one? It was a question to be answered by this Grand Council – a meeting of major lords of the realm to choose the next monarch. Jon did not care who it might be, so long as he was allowed to return home to the North, to where his heart lay.

The thought occurred to him that the lords of Westeros may try to crown him as their new king – an idea that filled Jon with dread. He never wanted to lead, yet had been forced into the role twice – as Lord Commander and as King in the North. He had taken to his roles with the same dedication as he had all of the others, but...leadership was not something that sat well upon his shoulders.

_To be responsible for so many lives, so many futures. It is not a duty any sane man would want._

He would refuse them if they offered it to him. It had been done before; Maester Aemon was asked to become King – even absolved of his oath personally by the High Septon himself – and he had refused to continue his service to both the Night's Watch and the Citadel.

 _You've got the North in you. The real North._ Jon smiled at Tormund's words as they echoed in his head.

There were times that he thought his life would have been so much more simple were he to have remained with the Free Folk. There, a man's worth was based on him as a person, not on blood or names or lineage.

Still, his heart was in Winterfell with Sansa. And he would never be parted from her.

* * *

“...Jon?” Davos's voice brought him from his reverie.

Sitting up straight he looked around, somewhat startled. “Yes, Ser Davos? Sorry...I was just thinking of the food situation.”

“What did you think of our idea?” asked Prince Quentyn.

“...What idea?” Jon stared at them blankly.

Tyrion snickered slightly, the first real smile Jon had seen on his face since the news of his sibling's deaths. “We will ask Lady Lollys if she wishes to renew her betrothal to Bronn and they shall, if she is willing, marry and he will become Lord of Stokeworth.”

It seemed a reasonable idea, yet Jon still felt uneasy about the man. “If she gives permission, then who are we to stand in their way? However, to be fair I still do not trust the man. He seems likely to turn his cloak to whomever can offer him something valuable.”

Davos patted his shoulder. “We'll keep tabs on the man until then. For now, you should really get some rest, lad. You look as though you've not slept in days.” he looked to Jon sympathetically.

“We could all do with some rest, I think.” said Prince Quentyn, yawning idly. “If we are done here?”

Jon nodded. “Alright, let's break for some rest. I...I think I may take your advice, Davos.” He had not slept in at least two days, being far too busy overseeing the effort of holding together the united army and shattered city now at his command.

Rising from the chair he walked to the corner of the tent where a small cot had been set up. Fighting the headache in his body Jon collapsed onto the thin sheet and found himself asleep within seconds, the overwhelming relief of sleep shutting down his mind before he could do anything else.

His last thought before unconsciousness claimed him was of Sansa. _I'll see her soon..._

* * *

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wanted to give some closure to jon connington. hope you guys enjoy! I promise that the jonsa reunion will be within the next two or so chapters. I swear!!

The thin soup that was served wasn't much, but it was at least edible, a vast improvement over the meagre rations that the surviving Company men had left.

Jon Connington sipped his soup with a heavy sigh, looking around the now-extinguished campfire at the dozen or so men who'd joined him there. Each one looked to him before they began their own meals, as though waiting for an order to enjoy their food.

_I suppose with Harry dead, I am the new General of this company._ His whole body still ached from the battle; his arms felt as though they had red-hot nails stuck through them, and every movement from lifting the soup bowl to simple hand gestures was painful. 

“What now, Cap – er, General, ser.” said Egg from beside him. He'd fared as well as the rest of the men – a deep cut rested over his right eye, where the wound was still wrapped up with cloth and held together with some strips of leather. The boy would have no use of that eye for the rest of his life.

That was another injury – a life changing one, at that – on his conscience. Still, it was hard to have one of those in this line of work; a sell-sword company went where the gold was, regardless of how the men of said company may have felt.

Looking around the camp Jon watched the other survivors – mostly small-folk from the city or former gold cloaks – as they went this way and that, getting their soup and slice of bread. Many of them sported hideous burns from the fires, while others were missing limbs or wore more bandages then they had skin.

“Enjoy your soup.” he mumbled, draining the last of the bowl. “and be thankful you are alive.”

At last count, perhaps some two hundred Company men had survived the massacre, not counting the hundred or so that had fled into the kingswood. Out of twenty thousand men who had originally come to Westeros, there were three hundred estimated left alive.

He was grateful that the victors even felt the need to feed him and his band, as they were under no obligation to. It will make a good impression at the Grand Council, he thought. The news had spread quickly of the dragon queen's death and the summoning of all major lords to the city.

“So what's this council about, then?” asked a man who Jon didn't know. “I hear lots of fancy nobles are coming here?”

Jon nodded. “A Grand Council – the lords of the realm will meet and agree on the next king or queen.”

“Sounds stupid.” he replied, with a few of the others nodding in agreement.

“It is what it is.” Jon shrugged. They would not understand; many of the Company men were from Essos, and did not realize how things played out here.

He looked down at the stump on his right hand, his steel crafted hand having been lost somewhere in the ruins of the city. _Twenty years of service, and for what? To end up a cripple back in the homeland I was thrown out of, fighting for a woman who blows up septs and kills her own kin._ It had been a strange life for him – yet he was still alive.

* * *

A shadow fell over the group from behind them.

“Uncle. So we meet at last.” a voice said, catching Jon's attention as he turned his gaze toward the source. The other Company men looked warily at the stranger.

Jon recognized the man at once. The red hair and husky build betrayed no illusions – this man was a Connington, alright. “Ronnet.” he nodded, rising to his feet. “I would shake your hand, but...” he held out his stump.

Ronnet was his cousin Ronald's son, having been only a few years old when Jon was exiled. He barely remembered the boy but the look was typical of those of his blood. Given that Griffin's Roost was in the Stormlands, it made sense for Ronnet to be here, supporting the Baratheon boy's army.

“Don't bother.” Ronnet sneered, eyeing him over with an unimpressed gaze. “I heard you were here in the camps – I wanted to see you again, to see what kind of man exile had made you. To be frank, I'm somewhat disappointed.”

Jon laughed. “Oh, dear Ronnet, you wound me.” he said sarcastically, “right here in my broken heart.”

“Look at you.” Ronnet rolled his eyes, “you look a common man at arms; unkempt and dirty. You associate with wastrels like this lot...” he gestured to the Company men, “...yet my father once spoke of you in such high regard. I wonder who this man was he talked to me about.”

One of the sell-swords growled, taking a step forward. “Fuck off, lordling.” he spat.

Jon put out his arm to hold the man back. “Ignore him.” he whispered.

That caused him to laugh. “This is the famed Golden Company, then? I must say, I thought your reputation was exaggerated. I can see they have lax standards as any other mercenary band, of course.”

“Did you come here for a touching reunion, Ronnet – or just to insult me?” Jon asked.

Scowling, his nephew stuck a finger into Jon's chest. “Unlike you, I plan to restore our house to its rightful place as LORDS of Griffon's Roost.” he growled. “I marched with my men to aid Lord Baratheon in his fight, and for my reward I mean to ask him to restore the lands and incomes that his father took from us. I didn't run away to join an unwashed band of killers as you did.”

“Is there a problem here?”

Opening his mouth to respond Jon was interrupted by the new voice. Both he and Ronnet turned to face the newcomer, finding it to be the Lord Protector himself, accompanied by a pair of Stark soldiers. Both of them had their hands on their sword hilts.

Ronnet bowed his head respectfully, turning away from his uncle with a side glare. “Not at all, Lord Protector.” he said with a smile, “I was simply reuniting with my dear uncle Jon. It is a pity he is not as my lord father once told me he was.”

Jon Snow eyed both men and nodded. “Ser Ronnet. I believe Lord Gendry wanted to speak with you back in his command tent. Something in regards to a petition of sorts?”

“Ah, yes. If I may be excused?” he asked, waiting for the nod before he rushed off, not sparing a glance toward Jon once more, something he was relieved about. _Arrogant shit,_ he thought. _Ronald did not raise you well, it seems._

* * *

Waving off the guards, the Lord Protector turned to him and offered a respectful nod. “Lord Connington.” he said with a slight smile. “I trust you and your men had their injuries tended to? My apologies for the food – we are still waiting for more supplies to arrive.”

Jon turned to the dragon son. “I am just grateful that you decided to feed us. It was not your obligation to do so, Lord Protector.”

“Nonsense. As I told you inside the city, we must work together to build a new future for Westeros.” Jon could tell that the boy was under undue stress; his eyes were sunken and his hair frazzled; it was clear he had not slept a restful night in some days.

Still, he had to respect him for coming here among the camps – he'd seen his retinue travelling in circuits over the past few days, stopping to speak with those who wished a moment of his time _. Just like Rhaegar._

“Have you decided what your next steps will be? I understand not many of your company remains here.” the dragon son asked, his face betraying his discomfort.

Turning back to his men – who now sat back down at ease with Ronnet gone – Jon shrugged. “I will take them back to Volantis. General Strickland left some five hundred of us there with our elephants. He meant to have us ready for the next job once this one was finished.” It would take time, but the company could be rebuilt.

“I thought you might wish to stay here in Westeros. It is your home, after all.” he asked, looking somewhat surprised.

That brought a scoff to Jon's lips. “This has not been home in twenty years, dragon son.” he said, spitting onto the ground. “The home I left behind is long gone. The people I knew – I loved – are long gone.”

His thoughts went once again to Rhaegar. What would his old friend think – his secret son the murderer of his own sister? Even though that sister had gone insane and began destroying the people who she wished to rule?

It was clear that the dragon son was troubled by what he had done. Jon could see it in his eyes – and it brought him some relief that the boy was not troubled by the same madness that had claimed his grand sire. At least for now.

_Heavy lies the crown. You knew that too well, old friend._

“We have managed to clear part of the Blackwater of the burning Iron Fleet ships.” the dragon son offered, “and I have dispatched vessels to Braavos to summon the Iron Bank to attend the Grand Council, so it will not be long until word reaches Volantis, I am sure.”

Jon nodded. “Until then, we shall trouble you no more, dragon son.”

That caused the boy to bristle. “If it please you, my lord – I offer you the respect you are due. I would ask the same of you for me; my name is Jon Snow.”

“I mean no disrespect with my address of you, Lord Protector.” Jon smiled, patting the boy's shoulder. “It is meant to be a title worthy of a great man. I called your father the same thing, long ago – in another life.”

“All the same. I would ask that you refer to me as Lord Snow, or even Jon.” he added.

_Clearly the dragon makes him uncomfortable. A pity._ “I meant no offence, Lord Snow. Pardon me - this old man's thoughts are with those twenty years dead.” 

“No offence is taken, my lord.” Jon Snow smiled back. “I wish you the best of luck when you return to Volantis. Perhaps one day you may return to Westeros and find it in a better state then it is now.” 

With that, Lord Snow and his guards walked off, heading down the camp as he stopped at each group of tents, talking briefly with the people now dwelling there. 

_Good luck, Jon Snow. I mean it._

* * *

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter shall be the reunion! it will take a few days as I must return to work on Sunday and want to spend Saturday relaxing, but I promise you it will be here before you know it!!

Jon rested his hand on the edge of the coffin, the sounds of his shallow and shuddering breath the only thing he could hear. Not even the din of the camp around him; soldiers talking, drinking, laughing and the like could be heard now.

The three caskets were draped over with Stark flags that Lord Edmure had found for them. He'd asked the Lord of the Trident to show him which one was Robb's.

He felt a burning in his eyes as tears fell onto the edge of the wood. “Do you remember when we were children?” he whispered, the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “how we would play with the wooden swords and shields that Ser Rodrik gave us?”

It was one of the memories burned into Jon's mind; he and Robb growing up at Winterfell, playing and laughing and training together under the approving eye of their father. Even when his siblings had been born Jon and Robb had kept the special bond that lasted throughout their life.

“We would shout out names of the famous heroes that we would act out. Aemon the Dragonknight, King Robert, King Aegon the Conqueror!” he continued, the tears now staining his cheeks as the continued unabated. Jon tried to laugh for Robb's sake, but he could not bring the sounds to bear.

He thought back to the last thing they had said to one another before Jon had left for the Wall – a thousand years ago. _The next time I see you, you'll be all in black. It was always my colour._

Jon felt the pain stabbing at his heart once again as he did the day the news of Robb's murder had come to Castle Black. “I should have...should have rode to join you when you set out.” he lamented, “maybe I...I could have helped you. Helped bring the war to a quicker end. Help you see your children grow up.”

Before he could continue Jon noted another person had entered the tent – he could already tell it was Ser Davos by the green tunic he wore. “I'm sorry to bother you, lad.” the man whispered, putting his hand on Jon's shoulder.

“No, it's..it's alright.” Jon said, turning his gaze to the Onion Knight. “I am glad to have a distraction even for a moment.”

“It was thoughtful of Lord Edmure to bring the remains here. Doubly so for the new Lord Frey to have them found.” he observed, squeezing his shoulder tight. His grip was comforting, as it would be for a father to his son.

* * *

They had received the party from the Riverlands a few hours ago. Dozens of food crates and medical supplies had come with them from Riverrun and the surrounding castles, and Jon had quickly seen to their distribution.

Edmure had introduced the new Lord Frey; Olyvar, a pimply faced boy of about fourteen. He was pale and nervous, his hand trembling when Jon shook it respectfully. “Olyvar had served as King Robb's squire during the War, and was kept in the dark about the...the events at the Twins.” he had said.

Jon held a great deal of anger for the Freys; they had murdered his brother and most of his army in a single night. Yet what kind of man would he be to condemn a frightened boy for the crimes of his grand-sire? He had absolved Ned Umber of the crimes of his father.

“I do not blame sons for the crimes of their fathers – or in this case, grand-fathers.” Jon had told Lord Olyvar with a smile, trying to put the boy at ease.

Other banner men had come with the Tully host. “Lords Bracken and Blackwood shall be along shortly – they both insisted on riding on separate paths here.” Edmure scoffed, “and Lady Darry is still with the caravan. She wished to present something to you personally.”

“I am aware the city is in a sorry state, my lord.” Jon had offered with a shrug. “but there are still rooms in the Red Keep untouched by the attack. We can quarter you and your lords there should you so wish.”

Edmure nodded his ascent. “There is...one thing I wish to say. Something that concerns family.” he had said in a near whisper so that only Jon could hear. Taking the hint, he'd waved away Davos, Gendry and Prince Quentyn.

“Lord Olyvar had the Twins searched after he became its lord. He found the remains of King Robb, his wife Queen Talisa and my sister Catelyn. Apparently, the old weasel had been keeping them as trophies.” he had revealed, gesturing to the wagons behind him. “I have brought their remains here so that once Sansa and her party arrive, we can make proper arrangements for their burial.”

Jon had felt the wind go out of him, even more so then he had in the past weeks dealing with matters of the state of King's Landing. He felt ready to cry right then and there, but managed to compose himself to continue his dealings with Lord Edmure. “I...I know not what to say.”

It was the young Lord Frey who had spoken up, mercifully bringing an end to the silence. “I wanted t-to set things right.” he stammered, “When I was his squire the King had always said we must do our duty as those chosen to lead. It was only fair I...I undo the last of my grand father's legacy.”

“He offered them to me before we rode out.” Edmure patted the boy's shoulder. “It takes great courage to act as he did.”

* * *

So it was that Jon found himself in the tent with the three coffins. “He wants to discuss with Sansa about the arrangements for Lady Catelyn.” Edmure wished to take Catelyn's remains to Riverrun and have them laid to rest in the style of the Tullys.

Jon himself had no objection, but wanted to allow Sansa, Arya and Bran to decide.

Accepting a kerchief from Davos Jon dried his eyes. “It is only right that they make the decision together. She was their mother, after all.”

Davos nodded. “Good choice. I only met Lady Stark once – and she was fierce like Lord Eddard, at least I got that impression.” he said with a laugh.

Jon looked at Davos. “I did not know this.”

“Oh, it was when I served King Stannis.” Davos recalled, “She and Lord Renly had rode out to parley with us, and it was there that she showed her teeth! 'If you were sons of mine I'd lock you in a bedchamber until you remembered you were brothers!' I remember her saying.”

That brought a laugh from both men. “Aye, that sounds like her.” No matter his own thoughts about how she had treated him during his childhood, Jon had a great respect for Lady Catelyn. She was devoted to her children, to her family – and the love she had for them was bottomless.

“I never met Robb. What was he like?” Davos asked carefully.

Jon smiled. “He was everything that I wanted to be – our father's heir. I never...only Sam knows about this, but I was jealous of him my whole life at the same time that I loved him.” he admitted, “from an early age I knew he would inherit Winterfell when our father died, and I would be left with nothing. But that was how it was, of course; he was Father's true-born son and I was his bastard.”

“And now things are a bit...irregular.” Davos nodded.

Snorting, Jon continued. “That is one way of putting it. He was skilled at everything, naturally. It came to him as though it was something he knew from birth. Horses, sword-fighting, lances – everything. There were times, Davos – times I wanted to hate him. But I never could. He was...still is...my brother. I loved him.”

Wiping his eyes again Jon felt the tears welling up. “I wonder what he would think of everything that has happened. About me...me and Sansa.” he choked.

“I think he would be happy that his sister has someone who loves her as you do.” Davos said, pulling Jon in for a fatherly hug. “Let it out, lad. It's alright to feel this way.” he patted Jon's back.

* * *

Jon felt embarrassed that he had broken down like this, but accepted Davos's support all the same. It was only a moment before he straightened himself up. “I...thank you, Davos. But I have to act as a ruler would until this council is over.”

“Don't feed me that horse shite.” Davos joked, “I know the real you in there.”

“And if you tell anyone I will have to kill you.” he shot back.

Jon looked over to the third casket – that of Robb's Volantene wife. “I wonder what she was like. Robb was a man of his word – it must have hurt him to break his oath to House Frey for this woman.” he said, taking a few steps over towards it.

“He clearly loved her very much.” Davos offered. “To win the heart of the King in the North. What...what will you do with her remains?”

“I will send word across Volantis. She was apparently the daughter of a House Maegyr – if they wish to bury their daughter in their lands, I cannot stand in their way. But if not, she shall rest beside Robb next to our lord father.” Jon placed a hand on the casket.

“I hate to break this up, but we should go and speak with the Riverlords.” Davos frowned, “I know Lord Edmure and the others will want to know all about the council and where it will be held.”

“I hope the Dragonpit is to their liking.” Jon sighed as he exited the tent with Davos.

_I hope you can rest now, Robb. With Father and your mother and Rickon. You deserve it._

* * *

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry bout the delay, I was not feeling well the last few days. hope you guys enjoy! next chapter will be exclusively jon and sansa. maybe smut, who knows?? 
> 
> for the record the vale and northern parties met up somewhere in the riverlands lets say.

During her time in King's Landing, Sansa had endured some of the most traumatic events of her life. From the loss of her father, to the torment and hatred of the royal family, including the man she was supposed to marry. Even the anger and rage of the small-folk directed towards her, soley because she was a member of the royal family – as a hostage. Yet despite all of that she was horrified by the sight before her, as she halted her horse on a small ridge overlooking the city proper.

The city that she knew was no more. Most of the structures visible had been destroyed by dragon-fire, which left great scars of blackened soil winding its way through the streets as though some kind of twisted serpent.

The Red Keep – the seat of kings since Aegon the Conqueror – was a burnt-out wreck. Great chunks had been ripped from the proud structure, with what remained looking like a giant hand had squeezed the building as tight as it could.

Below the shattered walls Sansa saw the waves of tents and cookfires that surrounded the city on all sides. She knew this was where the majority of the people now lived; just a few yards from their homes that were unlivable.

“I imagined it would be bad, but this...” she said aloud. It was more then she could imagine; the destruction brought forth by the Dragon Queen and – for what? To sit a throne that she never even seemed to be able to claim?

Lord Royce rode up beside her, his mouth still agape. “This is...the power of dragons, my lady.” he said, barely able to contain his own horror.

Behind him, Robin Arryn – her cousin and Warden of the East – shook his head in disbelief. The young lord had grown up significantly since she had last saw him, going from a whiny and sheltered boy to a more responsible young man. Gone were his days of tempers and whining, thanks in part to being removed from the influence of Littlefinger and his late mother.

“We should get down there.” he said, face slightly pale. “See if we can try to help. Somehow.”

It took a great deal for Sansa to turn her horse away from the sight below, still shaken from the absolute destruction unleashed upon the innocent people of the city.

Reaching the outskirts of the camps they were met by sentries bearing Martell colours. “Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Stark and Lord Arryn.” the lead rider said after they had declared themselves. “The Lord Protector awaits you in the eastern camps.”

Sansa had fought the urge to ride off alone, galloping away towards the northern lines. It would not be befitting a Lady to do such a thing, and so she rode along with her new Martell escort and the rest of her caravan while the wagons were unloaded behind them.

The Vale had, thankfully brought close to one hundred wagons of food and supplies – owing to a good harvest, Robin had told her – and by the dead eyes of those around her it was clear that it was needed in great supply.

* * *

It had taken a mercifully short time before the direwolf banners began to appear proper around her.

Bringing her horse to a halt she quickly dismounted. The men around her bowed and hailed her, though her gaze was on the three figures now approaching from the main row of tents of the Northern encampment.

She felt a sudden squeeze on her right hand. Turning, she smiled at Bran – who was down from his carriage and in his wheelchair once more. “I feel guilty for what I am thinking about now among all this horror.” she whispered.

Bran nodded. “I know. But we have to find love where we can. And Jon loves you as you do him.” he assured her with a smile of his own.

Ghost – who had been at her side the whole journey – rushed ahead and bowled into the centre figure, knocking him over and peppering him with licks. Sansa laughed, but found herself unable to move – unable to go to him. They were so close...

As both Northern and Vale lords assembled she watched as the men helped Jon to his feet. She saw him clearly now, and he was as glorious as the day he had left. His smile – and glimmering tears as he hugged Ghost tightly – made her heart flutter that much more.

“Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Stark and Lord Arryn.” said Tyrion as he approached. Sansa could tell he had been through a great deal; his smile was forced and his eyes sunken and hollow, as though he had not slept in days. “I am sorry it is under these circumstances...”

Sansa put on her best stately smile for him. “I am glad to see you, Lord Tyrion.” she said, offering him a polite bow. “I know that things have been dire these past few weeks, but both the North and the Vale have brought supplies and are ready to help.”

“As ever, Lady Sansa – you do not disappoint.” he smiled, gesturing to his left. “Lord Edmure arrived shortly before you did.”

Her uncle looked much as she expected him to, Sansa having not seen him since her original trip through the Riverlands towards the capital. Even still, she knew he had endured trials of his own – being held captive by House Frey and suffering their 'hospitality'.

He smiled sincerely, stepping forward to offer her a familial hug. “It is so good to see you again, Sansa.” he sighed with relief, “to see any of my family again is...well, something I expected to only be heartbroken with.”

She hugged him back, knowing of his pain. “And you, Uncle. You remember Bran, do you not?” she gestured to him.

Edmure blinked, smiling wider as he knelt down before him. “You were a little boy when we last saw one another, Bran. I know you might not remember me, but -”

Bran reached out and hugged him as best he could. “I remember you, Uncle. Mother talked a lot about you – and I am glad to see you alive and well among all of this...misery.”

“And I you. Seeing Arya again was wonderful, as well – but having not seen the two of you in many years brings a warmth to my heart even now.” he replied, rising to his feet. “My River lords have seen to distributing food and medicine as best as we can, but the amount of dead and wounded...”

Sansa's breath caught in her throat as Jon stepped up behind Edmure and Tyrion. He smiled, folding his hands in front of himself as the Tully lord spoke with Lord Arryn.

“Lord Protector!” Edmure blinked in surprise, looking behind him. “Listen to me, blathering on like a fool. I am sure you wish to speak with our newest arrivals as well as I.”

“Indeed, Lord Edmure. Thank you.” Jon kept his gaze fixed on Sansa, who felt as though she were melting like a tallow candle. “Welcome, my friends. Under these circumstances which are so dire, I am grateful for the aid that you have brought.”

Lord Royce stepped forward, bowing to him. “I am glad you are alive and unharmed, my lord. May I ask...what happened here?” he said, gesturing to the smouldering walls.

Jon's face fell. “I would be glad to speak of that another time, my lord. But for now...may I suggest that you and Lord Robin go with Lords Edmure and Tyrion? They can begin seeing to quartering you and your fellow lords. I would...appreciate a moment with my family.” he said softly.

Thankfully the others took the hint and began moving away ,leaving Jon to stand before the northern group. Ghost stood at his side, happily nuzzling the hand Jon allowed him to have.

Sansa felt her hands trembling as Jon stepped over to Bran, hugging him tight. “It's good to see you, Bran.” he whispered, kissing him on the forehead. “I know we just reunited before the battle, but then I had to leave again – gods, I missed you.”

Bran smiled as he hugged Jon back as tight as he did Edmure. “I knew you would come through this alive and well, Jon. We all did.” he gestured to the gathered party.

* * *

Next those grey eyes fell upon her as Jon stood only a few steps in front. They both said nothing for a moment, merely studying their faces. Sansa noted that both her and Jon were breathing shallow, almost as though they were shuddering.

“Hello, Sansa.” he finally whispered, his voice like honey.

She did not care who saw and launched herself into his arms, kissing his lips as tightly as she could manage. Sansa latched onto his back with her hands, willing herself to grow claws so she could dig into him to make sure he could never leave her again.

They had lost so much – she wanted to make sure that he would never be lost to her again. _He is mine,_ she told herself as she began to spin around, Jon having taken her by the hips and kissing her back with almost the same desperate emotion she had.

Both of their bodies pressed into one another as the world seemed to vanish; she could only see him and he only her. Not even the ruins of King's Landing were a priority right now – perhaps it was naive love and foolishness on her part, but Sansa was tired of being told who to marry and who to love.

After a few blissful, wonderful moments she regrettably pulled her lips away from his. A blush crept up her neck – and his, she noted – as they came back to reality. The whole of the Northern party was watching them, some with amusement in their eyes while others looked surprised.

“I...erm....am glad to see you, Jon.” Sansa stammered as she released her grasp on him, though his hands lingered somewhat upon her body. “You know our party.”

From behind her stepped Lord Howland, who offered a bow to Jon as he approached. “Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, my lord. I am...so glad to see you once again.” he smiled, patting Sansa on the arm. “though I will not be repeating the greeting that Lady Sansa gave.”

Jon laughed despite his embarrassment. “I am grateful for that, my lord. Else we would be here all day.”

* * *

“Hope you know you're not getting a kiss like that from me!” boomed Tormund from behind Sansa.

The wildling quickly forced his way – gently, of course – to the front of the group, smashing his arms around Jon in a tight hug. “So! This is the South! Hot, wet and fuckin' full of kneelers! I dunno how you stand it, my little crow.”

Jon returned the hug, though was clearly surprised. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Lady Stark said you needed some help!” he beamed. “You know us Free Folk. When we say we'll do something, we do it. I got fifty of the ugliest warriors we have left and made for Winterfell as fast as our garrons could go. Now we're here!”

“Well, I'm....glad to see you, of course.” Jon stammered, looking to Sansa – who only smiled sheepishly at him.

The big man laughed again. “Come on, lads. Let's give the baby crow some room – he wants to be alone with his wolf queen.” With that, he began to push and shove the other lords and their retinues away.

“But we must have words with the Lord Protector!” protested Lord Manderly, his thick chin jiggling in protest.

“Take your filthy hands off me!” shouted Lord Glover, clearly not amused at the antics. Yet they complied all the same, leaving only Jon, Sansa and Ghost to stand alone among the camps and refugees.

“You've no idea how much I missed you.” Jon sighed, running a hand across her cheek. “shall I escort you to our camp so you may...debrief me on events in Winterfell, my lady?” he said, offering an arm.

Sansa blushed as red as the beating sun, but took his arm none the less. “It shall take...several hours, I do believe. Much has happened in your absence.” she whispered, placing a kiss upon his cheek.

* * *

 


	36. Chapter 36

Jon pulled on his boots as he slid to the edge of the bed, trying to remain quiet as he could to avoid waking Sansa. As he finished the laces on one of the boots he spared a glance back towards her sleeping form. Her hair was sprawled out this way and that as she snored softly, the sight making his heart stir.

They had been away for so long – and finally they were reunited. But, even as their reunion had been as sweet as anything he could have hoped for, Jon dreaded the coming days as much as he did the days before a battle.

The Grand Council would decide the next monarch of Westeros – and if some of the fool lords had their way it would be him _. I don't want it_ , he told himself. _I never have_. Leadership had not been something he'd pursued – merely wanting to find an identity for himself beyond that of the Bastard of Winterfell.

“Can't sleep?” Sansa wrapped her arms around him from behind, causing him to jump slightly.

Jon turned his head and kissed her softly, the smell of lemon and earth contrasting nicely with his general smell of death and lack of bathing. “A lot on my mind.” he admitted with a sigh, “about this council.”

Placing gentle kisses on his neck and shoulders, Sansa rested her head on his back. “I know. You think as I do – they might choose you as King.”

Yet he would be lying if the thought was not tempting – if only slightly, thanks to the damned dragon stirring in the back of his mind. Even Ghost – who slept off in the corner of Sansa's chamber – could not help keep it at bay as it demanded him to become what he was born to be.

“I have no interest.” he said again, “if they offer it I will refuse. It has been done before, after all.” He thought of Maester Aemon and his story of how he'd refused the crown when it was offered to him – the power of the Seven Kingdoms was his for the taking and he'd rejected it.

Sansa's hands traced lines over his stomach scars as Jon shivered. “That...those are the results of my last attempts at leadership.” he said, watching as her slim and warm fingers traced him from behind. “I acted as a leader did and...I died for it.”

“Your last attempts as King in the North – well, it wasn't all bad.” she teased as she climbed into his lap, draping her arms around his neck. “though, I know it weighs ill on you, Jon. It is the mark of a leader that it does.” her tone turned serious as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Jon kissed her again, enjoying the contours of her body through the sheet with his hands. “How can I simply abandon my home – the ones I love – to rule a nation I have no vested interest in? With Daenerys dead, the North can finally be free; no matter who is King or Queen, the independence of our people should be a condition of our support.”

Sansa rose off of him, fashioning her sheet so that it covered her body as she strode to the open window, overlooking the shattered city bathing in the moonlight. “Do you not think I have thought about that? Dreaded it, too?” she asked as he joined her at the window.

“If...if this council goes the way I hope it will not, they will demand I take the crown. Refusal could...could mean what? Plunging the realm into more war as those rejected fight about who should take the place of the coward who refused the throne?” Jon sighed, slumping his shoulders. “I want to go home. I want us...” he grasped her hand and kissed it tightly, “to go home. I want nothing more then to be with you.”

Sansa could not disagree with his assessment.

“I missed you, Jon. So much.” she whispered, leaning into him. “Every day you were gone was...rough. No princes from the songs to rescue me, but still...your absence made Winterfell feel that much smaller.”

Jon laughed. “If you want me to sing, I think you will be disappointed.”

Taking a seat on one of the chairs next to the bed, Sansa sighed as she tried to fix her hair. “I have to meet with the other northern lords in the morning. Discuss how the Council will play out; the last one was so long ago that no one was alive for it.”

“I was surprised to see our friend Lord Glover here with you.” Jon observed idly.

Sansa chuckled, knowing his frustration. “He provided most of our men for the battle against Cersei. I could not risk offending him – plus, Ethena was practically begging me to bring her grand-father to see the city.”

“How is our ward?” he asked, changing the topic to something more palpable.

“An adorable nine year old girl.” Sansa smiled. “She is smart, head-strong and wants to be a great leader one day. Reminds me of a certain little boy I used to know.”

Feigning shock, Jon finished lacing up his pants. “Gods save us, she is brooding now? Lost cause, that one.” he teased.

“I got to meet with Yara Greyjoy.” Jon said idly as he sat down at the table with Sansa. “She is not a fan of my...decision regarding Daenerys. Though she would not be the only one; I still hear them muttering 'kinslayer' about me in the camps now.”

Sansa shot a hand across the table and squeezed one of his tight. “Forget what the people say, Jon. You know you had no choice. I know it. The lords of the realm know it. You are a hero to thousands who would be under the thrall of a woman ready to burn them to ash over the smallest insult.”

Was he? Jon still wrestled with himself as much as he wrestled with the damned dragon. “I...I know it had to be done. Yet there is still that part of me that feels guilt over it. Guilt, Sansa! For stopping Daenerys from rampaging across the world. Perhaps...perhaps it is because she trusted me as an ally and I killed her as one, not as an enemy.”

“You know it made no difference to her.” Sansa assured him, “but the past is behind us. We should look to the future. Both our future and that of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon nodded. “Forget Westeros.” he said, somewhat sarcastically. “Run away with me. Let's go to Essos and find a little house in Braavos to settle down in. I'll serve as a master-at-arms for some wealthy family and we'll have little red-headed grey eyed children aplenty. What do you say?”

Sansa giggled as she stood up, sauntering over to him. Sitting herself on his lap she kissed him deeply, her hands snaking around his neck once again. “No matter what happens, Jon –“ she started to say.

“I love you too, Sansa. With all of my being. You know that.” he finished for her, resting his hands on her back.

* * *

A crash from the door caused Sansa to jump up, grasping at her sheet as it threatened to fall off. Arya halted a few steps from their bed, rolling her eyes in disgust as she took in the sight of them. “You two are disgusting.” she teased.

Jon blushed as red as Sansa's hair. “Arya! Don't you know how to knock?” he stammered, thankful he was wearing pants.

She smirked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I do, but I wanted to surprise you.”

Sansa scowled at her little sister. “Were I proper I would give you a proper tongue-lashing, young lady.” she said in a mocking tone that made both of them snicker slightly.

“Well you're not.” she said with a shrug. “Anyway, I found Grey Worm. He's holed up with about ten or so Unsullied in the Alchemist Guild's hall. I gave him your offer and he accepts. Tomorrow, before the Council, he says – at the Dragonpit.”

Jon felt a rush of energy take him as he heard the news. A smile crossed over his face as he finally had the opportunity to bring Grey Worm to justice – and stop the fear that spread throughout the camps of the armies and peasants alike. “Finally.” he whispered.

“He is a dangerous foe, Jon.” Sansa said, looking somewhat concerned. “Remember the stories Maester Luwin told us about Essos? How the Unsullied are the best fighters in the known world? Still...” she relaxed slightly in Jon's presence of confidence, “...if anyone can defeat him, it's you.”

“I have to bring him to justice. The executions of unarmed prisoners, the rampant attacks on the people that he helped usher in – all of it.” Jon said firmly, going for his shirt. “If he wants revenge for Daenerys, he can try to take it.”

 _I am ready for you,_ Jon thought. _I will show you the power of both dragon and wolf._

* * *

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i suck at writing combat or fight scenes so I decided to change it up a little bit. i hope you guys enjoy!!

A ring of guards and nobles stood within the Dragonpit, with a single opening for Jon to enter. The ring was large enough to encompass a good two-thirds of the open space, but small enough to leave enough room for the dozens of chairs and table that were required for the opening of the Council.

“He's tough.” Gendry said, helping Jon strap the shield to his arm. “We both saw him fight at Winterfell. Just be careful, yeah?”

Jon nodded. “Fighting against the dead is one thing.” he smiled, grasping Lonclaw with his right hand. “but fighting against the living is far more...shall we say, unpredictable?”

He wore the same garb that he did on the day of the battle; his direwolf breastplate glistened in the morning sun. Were he to don full plate against such a foe, the battle would be hilariously one sided. It was as Ser Rodrik had once taught him and Robb as boys – a man can wear full plate and be untouchable, but neither will he be able to swing a sword. The fight would never end.

“Good luck.” Gendry clapped him on the back. “Don't do anything I wouldn't.”

Laughing, Jon entered the ring. Looking around he saw the Lords Paramount – Sansa, Edmure, Robin Arryn, Yara Greyjoy, Tyrion, Prince Quentyn – with their respective guards watching him and him alone. Gendry quickly moved off to join the rest of them in the circle.

Grey Worm looked at he usually did; wearing the same black leather that all Unsullied wore. His face was uncovered by a helmet, which Jon did not see anywhere. He grasped a spear and shield in his hands and his cold eyes affixed Jon with hate.

From what he knew of the man's fighting style, he chose to sacrifice defence for an aggressive and fast offence. He would use his spear and sword to overwhelm the enemy before cutting them down without mercy, giving little heed to his own protection. It was a bold strategy that could work against unprepared foes, but against those who had studied...well, it still would be dangerous given how experienced Unsullied were.

Both men said nothing for several moments as they studied one another. It was Jon who finally broke the silence. “To the death as we agreed, then?”

“Yes.” Grey Worm responded curtly. “It is the only way to bring justice. Once you are dead then I have avenged my Queen. Though if there were any gods they would allow me to stab you in the back as you did to her.”

Jon shook his head. “It wasn't in the back, by the way. I was raised to look those in the eye when you end their lives.”

The eunuch spat on the ground. “The Queen trusted you and you betrayed her. I will hear no more of your ramblings.”

“Fine, then.” Jon raised his blade, “but one thing. No matter who prevails, either you or I – once this is done then your people and the Dothraki must leave Westeros. No pillaging, raping or slaughter will be tolerated.”

“Once I have brought you to justice there will be no need for me to stay. I agree.” he said, raising his shield and spear. “Enough talk. Let the combat be joined.”

Jon gazed at Sansa, who stood with a neutral expression on her face behind him. When their eyes met she smiled and gave him a slight nod. _I have faith in you,_ it told him. _You can do this._

Ser Davos stepped into the circle, standing between the pair. He looked to each man before starting to speak. “This is a trial by combat, agreed by the participants to be one to the death. Each man shall be granted the use of spear, sword and shield. No additional weapons will be provided. Let the truth of each others claims be settled in this most ancient combat.”

“Grey Worm, champion of the fallen queen Daenerys Targaryen. Are you ready?” he asked. Grey Worm responded with a nod.

“Jon Snow, Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms – are you ready?” Davos looked to him, a mixture of hope and concern visible on his face. He was as nervous as Jon was, truth be told. But it did not matter how he felt – how anyone felt. _This is about justice._

“I am.” he answered, bringing his shield up.

Stepping back to the edge of the ring, Davos nodded. “Begin.”

* * *

Bran had endured loss before – great loss, as he knew. In his visions he saw the deaths of his father, mother, brothers and friends. The Three Eyed Raven showed him this and many more – all necessary so that he would be able to use the powers of green sight to defeat the Night King.

Yet now as Jon and Grey Worm circled one another before him, he felt an emotion that had returned to him after what felt like an eternity – anxiety. He was nervous; this contest would be one of skill and both fighters had it in abundance.

Looking to Sansa, he cast a worried glance her way. She saw it and placed a hand on his shoulder – her touch was always warm and comforting, he thought – but Bran's mind remained awash in possibilities; another 'gift' from his often-silent patron now.

There were a million million different futures that were possible, he knew. One of the last things he'd seen – when the battle against the Night King was joined, and the dead were bearing down upon him in that godswood – was a glimpse at some of the futures that fate held.

Some where Daenerys would rule wisely and well. Others where she would not. Even futures that seemed so ludicrous to believe – there was one where he was King, even! That future had been one of his least favourites to view; Jon had been sent into exile partially by _his_ own hand, away from the home and people he cared about.

But now Jon was here, battling to ensure that Westeros had a future.

Meera squeezed his hand for support as the pair clashed blades proper. “Your brother – er, cousin – is strong. A good fighter, even; he will be alright, Bran. I know he will.” she assured him with a gentle smile; the smile he loved.

It was funny how fate spun things for the Starks, he knew. Since the day he was shoved from the tower by Jaime Lannister his life had been destined to be controlled by the entity known as the Three Eyed Raven. It was no longer a man, to be truthful to himself; the part of him that had been mortal was long gone.

Even though he had proven invaluable to Bran for all the knowledge and lessons he'd learned, there was still a malevolence within. A desire for – something, something Bran could not identity. But the desire was so strong and projected such emotions of hatred that it was physically painful for him to think about it.

_I cannot dwell on the past,_ he told himself. Since the Night King's defeat his mind had become his own again – emotions, thoughts, feelings, everything had returned in a gradual awakening; as though he was being dunked into a tub of hot water one limb at a time.

As Jon blocked another strike from Grey Worm's spear Bran studied his cousin carefully. Here was a man that Bran admired and loved dearly. One who his father had sacrificed his honour and reputation to keep safe at the words of his dying sister.

Yet even more then that, Bran loved Jon with all of his heart because of their time together as children; he was always kind and loving to them, even when Bran's lady mother would shoot cold glares his way.

_If only she had learned the truth,_ he lamented. Perhaps she could have grown to love Jon – but that was a question no answer could be given for, as his mother was long dead. He had visited her remains once settling into the Red Keep, graciously provided by his uncle Edmure.

Bran had cried then, for the first time in a long time. His last memory of her was before he fell, when he was still a little boy who dreamed of being a knight. He had followed her life through his visions, but visions did not allow him to feel her warmth or comfort.

He bit back a cheer as Jon's blade snapped the end of Grey Worm's spear off, forcing the eunuch to draw his sword. His green-sight was not what it once was, and he tried desperately on the road to the capital to see what was happening – but all he could get was brief flashes and sounds, more then anything.

The burning of King's Landing at the hands of the dragon queen, well – that was something he experienced in its intensity. He did not know why, but perhaps it was the Three Eyed Raven giving him one last burst of potency?

His mind continued back around to Jon – here was a man with a story to tell. Even after he had learned the truth about his family, it had changed nothing about who he was. He was still Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark; he had remained true to the father who had loved and raised him, and the brother and sisters who still cared for him as they had ever.

Except Sansa, of course. Their love went beyond anything simple; it was on a level of Bran and his feelings for Meera or Arya and her feelings for Gendry.

Some people might say that Bran had a better story; a boy who could see all things and know the future. But that was not who he was – not anymore. The role of greenseer was a role he had to play in the war against the Others. Now? Now his visions were no more then flashes, yet he still felt the same magic from the godswoods that he had always. It was more peaceful now, more natural; _the old magic still flows within Westeros_ , he mused.

The combatants continued their relentless combat; Jon delivering a flurry of blows that sent Grey Worm staggering back. He recovered, however, and went low, causing Jon to drop his shield at the last moment in a narrow miss – it would have plunged straight into his stomach had he not lowered it in time.

Bran could tell both men were growing fatigued. Jon had lines of sweat running down his face while Grey Worm's breathing was hard and shallow.

Sansa's gaze was bored onto Jon, refusing to even glance any other way. The love she felt for him was palpable even by Bran, even as she barely reacted to the fight otherwise. It was sweet, knowing what he did about her past. To find someone who loved her for who she was – a regal, beautiful woman who had come out of her experiences stronger and more able.

He remembered the awkward first meeting they had when he'd returned home. Apparently, the raven was not as subtle as Bran ever was; dredging up memories of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton as a strange way of 'apologizing' for what she had endured.

It still made him embarrassed to think about.

He heard her gasp and turned his attention back to the fight.

* * *

Jon felt Grey Worm throw himself against the shield, forcing him down to one knee. The man's ferocity was that of a snow-bear or shadow-cat, he mused. He had discarded both his own shield and sword and was grappling tightly against him.

Even with his own grip, Jon found his arm being pulled painfully from the straps as it felt as though the man would rip his arm right out of its socket. Perhaps that was his plan – either way, he was not about to let that happen.

With reluctance he used his free hand to undo the straps, letting Grey Worm pull the shield free. Tossing it to the side, the pair studied each other once again. Neither man had any weapons, with Longclaw and the eunuch's sword laying uselessly on the ground, Jon having dropped his weapon after a sustained clash that lead to both of them being disarmed.

A base anger swelled within him as he found himself rushing forward, aiming to grab onto his opponent's shoulders. Grey Worm evidently had the same thought as both men smashed into one another, grappling each other with newfound strength.

Pulling his head back Jon smashed it into Grey Worm's face with all of his might, causing the eunuch to stagger ever so slightly – but he still held his grapple. In response Jon found himself being kneed in the crotch, the pain so intense that it felt as though his stomach was going to come up through his mouth, and he dropped to his knees, releasing his hold.

Yet Grey Worm hesitated. Instead he looked to Jon and sneered. “I will kill you in front of your lover to show her that the Queen's enemies always face justice.” he said, looking to Sansa.

* * *

_Bad decision._

Before he could return to the fight Jon threw himself forward, tackling the man to the ground with a spear to his stomach. He grabbed hold of his head and slammed it into the floor before Grey Worm was able to throw him off using his body.

Crashing down next to him Jon punched him in the side of the head before rolling back onto him, the anger now flooding into a rage with his direct threat to Sansa. He had crossed a line, one that Jon thought was not possible for a eunuch.

The man struggled under his grip, landing a few punches that caused him to taste blood, but Jon felt almost nothing at that moment. He felt only the same heat he once did during battle, during his desire to rip and tear at the enemy.

He slammed the man's head into the floor again and and again, every blow a strike for those he had failed – living or dead. For all of the wrongs Sansa had endured, for all of the evil that had been unleashed upon the land over the past few years.

It was all it took him to not lose control, to not try and savage the man further – it was his right, roared the dragon.

_Take vengeance for those you have lost. Bring fire and blood down upon this cur!_

But that was not him, not even as the embers of his blood stirred inside of his chest. He had the blood of Old Valyria, of the ancient dragon lords of old – those who used their beasts to ravage and slaughter and enslave. But the Freehold was gone, destroyed by their own hubris and stupidity – as followed the only family to survive the Doom.

He would not make the same mistake as generations of Targaryens. He would not give in.

Once Grey Worm stopped moving Jon ceased his attack. He looked up as he rose to his feet, pain radiating through his face as he spat out a good amount of blood – along with one or two of his back teeth.

The lords gathered around him applauded as two guards moved to take Grey Worm's body away.

“The trial is over and the gods have deemed Lord Protector Jon Snow as the victor. All hail!” Davos shouted.

His eyes were on Sansa the whole time. And she smiled at him with a radiance that threatened to burn out his eyes.

* * *

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I tried to write out the grand council scene in full but it was too confusing to keep up with all the names, so a lot of the "council" will be behind the scenes gathering support for Jon's claim. i hope you guys enjoy! oh, here is a list of the lords and ladies attending the Council(I went with 4 for each region):
> 
> the north: sansa stark  
> -wyman manderly  
> -robett glover  
> -howland reed
> 
> the crownlands: no real "ruling" house  
> -house massey  
> -house bar emmon  
> -house stokeworth  
> -house rosby
> 
> the east: robin arryn  
> -yohn royce  
> -anya waynwood  
> -triston sunderland 
> 
> the west: tyrion lannister  
> -damon marbrand  
> -roland crakehall  
> -quenten banefort
> 
> dorne: quentyn martell  
> -anders yronwood  
> -harman uller  
> -trebor jordayne
> 
> the south: paxter redwyne(acting)  
> -leyton hightower  
> -lord fossoway(lord name unknown in ASOIAF)  
> -lady oakheart 
> 
> riverlands: edmure tully  
> -jonos bracken  
> -tytos blackwood  
> -olyvar frey
> 
> iron islands: yara greyjoy  
> -rodrik harlaw  
> -dunstan drumm  
> gorold goodbrother
> 
> stormlands: gendry baratheon  
> -selwyn tarth  
> -jacerys velaryon  
> -ardrian celtigar
> 
> crownlands: justin massey  
> -lollys stokeworth  
> -gyles rosby  
> -duram bar emmon
> 
> I invented Jacerys Velaryon for this verse but mentioned the in canon lord(monterys) as having died. hope that is ok

Sighing with relief as she exited the Dragonpit with the other lords, Sansa was exhausted. The first day of the Grand Council had gone as she expected – endless amounts of bickering between the various lords over why they or their chosen lord should be the next ruler. _It took half the day just to get through the speeches given_ , she mused bitterly.

Behind her, the Northern lords paused as she did, making sure to be far enough away from the rest of the lords as they filed out of the arena. Ten long hours had gone by, and the moon was starting to come out high above them.

Turning to face them, Sansa took in their expressions. Howland Reed was ready with an amenable if tired smile, as he always was. Wyman Manderly looked contemplative and almost hopeful – though that could have been his rather prominent moustache – and Robett Glover as ever, looked miserable and ready to mope.

 _What a state of affairs_ , she thought. “Tomorrow is when the real work begins, my lords.” she told them, glancing about to make sure they were not being overheard, “Already, Lord Royce and the Vale are getting ready to put forth Gendry as their candidate.”

She knew it was so; Royce and the other Vale lords – save her cousin Robin, who remained silent through the affair – had spoken long and hard about how blood ties were not as they used to be, and that those who claimed the throne through other means should be considered. They praised King Robert's seventeen years of peace and warned of the perils of putting another madman on the Throne.

“Another Southern ruler,” grumbled Lord Glover. “So much for a free North.”

“We have a candidate of our own that you forget, my lord.” she told him.

Glover's scowl only deepened. “I swore to serve House Stark, my lady. I am proud to serve you as I did your lord father before you. But if you ask me to serve a Targaryen ruler...”

Sansa was annoyed by his attitude already. “Jon Snow is not a Targaryen ruler!” she said sternly, “He has proven himself both in battle and in court to be a man of the North; a son of Eddard Stark just as much as I am his daughter.”

“His blood is bad. The Mad King's seed runs within him.” Glover responded, “how can we know we will not repeat Robert's Rebellion in twenty years?”

“He was not born of incest as his sire was, my lord Glover.” said Lord Reed, leaning on his cane for support. “Even as negatively disposed to him as you are, surely that you can see his nature is much more of the North then it is – or has – ever been of the South?”

Glover's face grew slightly red. “I will not deny that he served us well as King in the North – before bending his knee to a Targaryen. Need we forget he gave away his crown?”

“And need you forget, _my lord,_ that when the army of the dead itself – a hundred thousand shambling corpses and their otherworldly masters – marched upon Winterfell, that House Glover was no where to be found?” Sansa glared at him. “Yet you lecture us about loyalty and service? He forgave you your inaction – not one but twice.”

At the very least the man had the sense to look ashamed. “Forgive me, my lady. I...just want what is best for the North.”

“As do I, my lord.” she assured him. “Besides, would you rather a southern king with no ties to the North...or a northern king within whom who's blood flows that of the Kings of Winter?”

“Lady Sansa is right!” agreed Lord Manderly. “If not a free North, a North where a son of Winterfell sits on the Iron Throne...or what is left of it, rather...would suit House Manderly just fine. Perhaps the massive loss of life that occurred in the last war could have been avoided if Ned had taken the throne rather then King Robert.”

 _We will never know._ Sansa was not a fool enough to think her father – as much as she loved him – would have been able to survive and weave his way through the myriad politics of King's Landing as its monarch; he had lost his head while serving as Robert's Hand. As King? It made her shudder to think.

It was a fate she wanted desperately to avoid with Jon. Jon was the man she loved, the man she chose – but he was also the best candidate for the Seven Kingdoms. She wanted nothing more then to go home with him, to stay shut away in their home and let the troubles of the south pass them by.

But alas, it would not be so. While she had great respect for Gendry she knew that he was still too unused to life as anything more then a commoner – at least Jon was given a lord's education as a child – and might end up being manipulated by those around him.

“King Robert gave us seventeen years of peace – yet he was a drunken whore monger who cared nothing for ruling and allowed those around him to make the decisions.” Sansa explained, “he was easy to manipulate and easier to coax. Jon...we know that he is not the type to be manipulated by those around him. He makes the hard choices that those closest to him may not agree with, but are in the end the correct ones.”

Lord Reed pursed his lips. “Well said, my lady. Yet we are only four votes – we must convince others to support Jon's claim to the Throne. And – we also must convince the man himself to want to accept the crown if it is offered him.”

“Jon has told me he has no interest in ruling, yet he did so. Three times – once as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, again as King in the North, and even now as Lord Protector.” Sansa said, “While he may not want to lead he is a natural when placed into a position where he must. I know he will do the right thing and accept.”

“Yet you are right about securing support for him. I know that the Vale will not – they seem set on backing Gendry's own claim. Dorne? Perhaps, but there may be bad blood due to the...circumstances of his birth.” Sansa observed.

“Perhaps we could begin with House Celtigar and House Velaryon? They both have the blood of old Valyria in their veins and were strong supporters of the Targaryens before the rebellion.” Manderly noted, “even though they are now sworn to Storm's End.”

Sansa smiled. “Then that is where I will go. Goodnight, my lords – I will see you first thing in the morrow.”

* * *

Lord Ardrian Celtigar was an old man, relying on a cane to help him move his aged and withered frame this way and that. Yet Sansa knew that his mind was still sharp; physical frailty usually concealed those who had the potential to be the most dangerous.

As one of his guards lead her into the small apartment in the Red Keep, she took note of the decorations brought from Claw Isle. The banner of his House – white with red crabs – hung over the bed, as did a painting depicting two dragons in flight. She knew him to be a wealthy man; he was said to hoard as much treasure as pirates accumulated in their lifetime.

“Announcing Lady Sansa of House Stark.” the guard called out.

Lord Celtigar shuffled quickly from his desk to greet her. He was a shorter man, with pale white hair and a thin complexion. A moustache dotted his lip and he walked with a hunch as he took her hand and kissed it. “Lady Stark. It is a great honour to meet you at last.” he said cordially, offering her a seat.

“I knew your father well, though not as well as I would have liked.” he said with a smile. “Lord Eddard was a good man.”

Sansa smiled, folding her hands on the table. “Thank you, my lord. I was surprised to hear you travel all the way from Claw Isle for the Council, given your...venerable years.”

That brought a laugh from him. “I'm an old man, I know. But a Grand Council is not something I ever thought to see in my lifetime. My lord father told me about the last one that his father attended when I was but a boy.”

She knew that despite his shared heritage with the Targaryens, he was a cautious man. He had loyally served House Baratheon and fought with Stannis on the Blackwater until bending the knee to Joffrey once he was captured. “Now we face a Council without strong contenders, I see.” she observed. “It is turning out to be interesting at least.”

“That it is!” he said, taking an empty cup from beside him. “Would you care for a drink? Forgive me, I am but an improper host.”

Shaking her head, Sansa continued on. “There is nothing to forgive. I apologize for intruding on you this late, given how...long and ponderous the Council was today. I simply wanted to speak with a man of your status and history, given you know the way the Seven Kingdoms has turned out all of these years.”

“As a loyal vassal of Storm's End, it would be a mistake for me to not say I would support Lord Baratheon.” he noted, “Claw Isle has been sworn to them since the end of Robert's Rebellion, and we have served the stag faithfully. Yet the boy is young, and rather inexperienced in the ways of ruler-ship. I believe he has his heart in the right place, but – so much is uncertain about him.”

He was giving her the opening she needed, Sansa thought. Even still, she had to be careful – it could just be a way for him to get information on other contenders from her. “He is a good man. He fought alongside us in Winterfell against the Others and their minions.”

Celtigar shuddered. “I heard many tales of what happened up there. Whilst some of my courtiers may mock the idea, I fully believe that the threat was real.”

“It was. I can attest to that with no lies.” she said seriously. “If it was not for my sister Arya and Jon Snow among others – we would likely all be wights marching in their infernal army.”

Lord Ardrian clucked his tongue as he seemed to be lost in thought a moment. “Ah yes, Jon Snow. So many stories about him have come out since his time as Lord Protector – and before that, thanks to our dear late friend Varys. The true born son of Rhaegar Targaryen himself! Still, he seems to be well thought of by many.”

“As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he was one of the first to recognize the true threat of the Others from Beyond the Wall. He united the wildlings and the Watch together – an act that earned him the hatred of many of his own officers.” Sansa explained, tracing a finger on the table, “From there we took back Winterfell from House Bolton and he was hailed as King in the North by our bannermen; they viewed the threat with as much disdain as many others, but he encouraged them to prepare all the same.”

“Very high praise from the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa nodded. “He is deserving of all those accolades and more, my lord. I will not mince words – now is not the time for such trivialities such as that – he is the man to throw your support behind as King. He holds the blood of two ancient houses – Targaryen and Stark – and has proven himself sane, just and ready for such a momentous task.”

“Mincing words is pointless now, my lady – I agree. I – and my fathers before me – have always supported House Targaryen. Ours is the blood of Old Valyria, as I believe you already know.” he said wryly, “and yet, the dragon queen cared not for faith and loyalty when she burned down this city.”

“She was a tyrant. I seek to prevent future tyrants from coming to power. Let us be frank, Lord Baratheon – while a good man – is inexperienced in the ways of leadership. Advisers around him will manipulate and use him to their own ends. Would you have another Robert? Another Joffrey?”

Sansa held her breath ever so slightly. A wave of guilt swelled up inside her once more, and she felt shame for what she was planning. He had no interest in the throne – nor did she want to lose him to this wretched shit pile of a city – but Jon was the only one of all the lords of the realm she trusted to govern wisely and well.

_Forgive me, Jon. Please._

“You will have my support, Lady Stark.” Lord Ardrian rose to his feet slowly, stooping over to kiss her hand. “House Celtigar will honour its pledge to House Targaryen as we always have.”

* * *

The next lord she visited – Lord Jacerys Velaryon of Driftmark – was surprisingly easier to convince then Lord Ardrian was.

“You need not plead for my support, Lady Stark.” he assured her, stroking his bushy black beard. “House Velaryon has three times provided brides for Targaryen princes. We have stood at the dragon's side since the Doom itself. Jon Snow – forgive me, Aegon Targaryen – is a worthy inheritor to both the legacy of Aegon and Brandon the Builder.”

He was too hung up about the legacy of the Targaryens to truly care about Jon's merits as King, but Sansa appreciated his support none the less. As a member of the 'lesser' branch of his House that inherited the role as Lord of the Tides following the death of his twelve year old cousin, he was likely trying to prove his loyalty to a potential King before the crowning so as to ensure a 'fruitful' relationship that benefited him and his kin.

As she exited Lord Velaryon's study Sansa looked up at the sky, the full moon now on display.

She would need to find more support for Jon before the morning – but she was tired. Exhausted from the long speeches and annoying preening from the various lords of the realm, she felt as though her body was ready to collapse at any moment.

Brienne still had not returned – likely she was spending the night with her father, catching him up on her adventures – and that was fine. She deserves a rest, Sansa told herself as her two guards fell in behind her.

Slipping into her chambers Sansa sighed, collapsing onto the bed within seconds. She did not even bother to take her dress off or change into proper night-clothes. All she could think about was the coming day – more speeches and more need for politicking – and about Jon. He was likely working late as he did; the role of Lord Protector was not made for idle hands.

_It is about time Westeros has a King that cares again._

_I just wish it could be someone else._

* * *

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hardest chapter to write so far. i hope you guys enjoy it though!

The lack of wine was what irked Tyrion the most; not the endless speeches and arrogant self-importance issued by the lords during the Council – that was par for the course as a member of the nobility, after all – but having to listen to it sober? That was the intolerable situation.

He poured himself a tall glass and drank deep. The tartness was a welcome relief on his tongue.   
  
It had been two dreadful days of speeches and bickering thus far. No one had even been formally nominated yet – though a bloc was forming around that of young Gendry Baratheon; it seemed that the Arryns and their lords were in favour of continuing with Robert's legacy.

And of course there was Jon Snow; he had his own supporters in Sansa and the Northern lords. Her love for him was deeper then anything Tyrion had ever known before – it was almost something he envied, having once been married to her.

Though that was the long passed – he had to focus on the here and now. Seeing the end to this wretched gathering so he could bury Jaime and Cersei back home where they belonged. Wicked as his sister was, she was still his blood.

A knock at the door stirred him from his drink. “Yes?” he called.

“Apologies, my lord, but Lady Sansa is here to see you. She claims it is urgent.” called the guard at the door.

_Ah, took her long enough._ “Send her in.”

* * *

Looking as radiant as she always did – with the same commanding walk and posture that he had come to expect of her – Sansa entered the room and offered a curtsy. “Good to see you again, Lord Tyrion.” she smiled.

“And you, my lady.” he returned her smile, gesturing to a seat. “Some wine? I needed a drink after the endless nonsense we had to listen to today.”

“Thank you, but no.” she waved away the pitcher, “though I sympathize with your predicament. I haven't had a headache this strong since those stupid tournaments Joff used to throw.”

That drew a laugh from both of them. “My loathsome nephew certainly had his way of bringing us great problems, did he not?” Tyrion raised a glass, “To you, Joffrey. May you rot in the seven hells! Ah...in truth, I was wondering when you would come and visit me.”

“Oh? You expected me.” she said, raising a brow ever slightly.

“I can hardly expect a visit from young Lord Arryn or any of the Vale lords. They would never debase themselves by soliciting my support – especially given my friendship with the hill tribes. I hear that they still are plagued by their raids even today.” he shrugged.

Sansa folded her hands on the desk. Her face appeared serious as she leaned forward. “We both know that there are only two real choices being presented here at this council. Jon or Gendry – there is no true support for any other man or woman at this gathering.”

“I was just speaking with the lords sworn to House Lannister that came here with me.” Tyrion said, evading her point. “They share my concern as to whom we should support, given the...past history between House Lannister, House Stark and House Baratheon. In truth, they worry that punishments will be inflicted upon the Westerlands by whomever gets the crown.”

“It is a valid concern.” she agreed.

Nodding, he continued. “I am glad you see it as I do.” He took a drink from his cup. “I know that Jon is a proven leader and battle commander. Gods know we witnessed that during the fight against the dead, and again during his fight to take the city. I also know he will do what is necessary for the sake of the realm...no matter the personal cost. Many lords whisper 'kinslayer' and 'bastard' behind his back even now.”

Sansa already knew that. She had caught many of her own men at arms referring to Jon as such – it both hurt and angered her, given all that he has sacrificed for the North to still be standing after facing down what it had. “He also forgives those who have wronged him and his family in the name of peace. Exactly what I know he will do in regards to the Lannister conflict.”

“Lannister conflict?” Tyrion smirked, “an apt name for what the realm has endured, though not an unfair one. I know the kind of man he is, but the lords of the Westerlands can only hear my words. I cannot force them to vote how I do.”

“I would not ask you to force anyone.” Sansa assured him, rising to her feet. “I only ask that you and they consider the benefits to be had if we decide to offer the crown to Jon. I believe that the benefits outweigh any risks involved, given what we both know of him.”

“It has been a great pleasure to see you again, Sansa.” he smiled, taking the hand she offered and planting a polite kiss upon it. “As always, you continue to impress with your skill and conviction. Jon is lucky to have you.”

Sansa smiled as she swept out of the room, carrying herself with the command and respect he had come to expect. As she left, Tyrion turned his attention back to the window where the still smoking ruins of the city lay below.

He had much to think about – the lords of the Westerlands may not be willing to forgive the Targaryens so easily, yet they had been subservient to Cersei's whims and cruelties as much as he himself had. A thought of sadness popped into his head; he had believed in Daenerys and her cause, wanting and fooling himself into thinking she would be a just ruler in a better world.

Sacrifices are necessary sometimes, he mused. He had accepted that without hesitation or delay – and her actions were always something he could defend. _A stunted fool,_ his father had once called him. Perhaps he had been right; he'd placed his wagers firmly in Daeneerys's corner and lost everything.

He could not make the same mistake again.

Summoning a servant he asked, “Have the Crownland lords arrived for the Council yet? I know the Lord Protector said they would miss the first day...”

“Yes, m'lord.” the man answered swiftly.

“Tell them that I wish to speak with them on a matter of importance. Urgently.”

* * *

“Do you think he'll be able to persuade them?” Arya asked as she paced about the room. “I mean, the Imp is a devious little shit, Sansa. Remember how much he championed the dragon queen's cause.”

Shrugging, Sansa ran a hand through her hair. The throbbing pain in her temples was almost constant now, likely due to the stress that she was under. “I know. But Tyrion is also a pragmatic man above all. He knows that even if Gendry does not wish to, those around him will desire to see the Westerlands punished severely as revenge for their own lost holdings.”

“I don't mean to be crass, but – who gives a shit about them?” Arya looked out the window, flicking dirt from her fingernails, “with the way that family treated us, I would not object to them having to suffer a little hardship.”

“The realm needs the crops and gold of Casterly Rock. I dislike it too – but if the North is to be free of any southron demands, the other realms must provide for reconstruction, especially those who have suffered almost no incursions into their lands.” she replied, tapping her hands on the table.

“Pursuing vengeance will only get us – all of us – dragged back into another war.” Bran said from Sansa's right. “We have to be smart about this...otherwise what is the point of all the destruction?”

Sansa turned her gaze to where Jon sat, facing away from the group. He said nothing, mug in hand. “Jon? Are you listening?” she asked cautiously.

Turning his head Jon nodded. “Here I am, listening to my siblings – cousins, sorry – plot to make me ruler of a land I don't want.” he mumbled, downing another sip of ale. “seven hells, I would rather bugger an entire stable then be called King Jon or Aegon or...whatever.”

Slightly intoxicated, he sighed. “That's a lie. I...always wanted to be someone. Lord of Winterfell. A great hero. Father's heir. Now I...I get the chance but...but it's for a father I never knew with a title I don't want and heir to a family of inbred freaks.”

“You have a chance to change that, Jon.” said Bran, looking at him with a warm smile. “A new, better King. Someone who has fought the battles and conflicts of the realm, all of them. From the Wall to Winterfell to King's Landing you have battled through the odds.”

“Wars do not make a ruler, Bran.” he shot back.

“That may be true, but the three of us know you have what it takes to lead.” Sansa stepped over to Jon and pulled him gently from his chair over hoarse objections, leading him to take the free seat at her side.

“That's so, I guess.” Jon smiled back towards Bran, “so...where does my support base stand?” he asked with a shudder.

Arya pulled herself into a free chair across from Sansa. “I've had words with Prince Quentyn. He says that he has no qualms about supporting you – he is not his father and uncle, after all – though he cannot guarantee that Lords Jordayne or Yronwood will. They still have bitter memories about Rhaegar Targaryen's marriage to Elia Martell.”

“The Reach lords were skeptical of your claim, but – they seem to be coming around now.” Bran added. “Lord Redwyne is acting as Warden of the South until the other two Tyrell brothers return from Lorath – but his word carries weight with the others none the less.”

A knock at the door drew the attention away from the conversation. “Enter!” Sansa called, knowing who was present.

Prince Quentyn bowed as he entered, followed by Lord Uller. “Lady Stark – thank you for inviting us.” he smiled, “I apologize for our tardiness.”

“Prince Quentyn!” Jon was surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“I invited him and Lord Harman to speak with us in regards to the council.” Sansa explained, “he has already pledged to vote with us, after all.”

“So – how do we stand thus far?” Quentyn asked, pulling up a chair.

“We were just discussing that, as it stands.” Sansa continued, “Lord Blackwood will vote with the Northern delegates. Lord Bracken will – as ever – vote opposite what Blackwood does, so we cannot count on his support. As to Lord Edmure – he is still a difficult case. When Arya spoke to him he said that he was -”

“Still concerned about proper heritage” Arya mocked. “He told me that while Jon has been a good acting leader, his bloodline still concerns him to the point that he is unsure of his vote. Personally I think he still distrusts him based on Mother's own view.”

Jon sighed, keeping his head down as he downed the last of his mug. “Who are we missing, then?” he mumbled.

“We know that the Vale will support Gendry. The Iron Islands likely will, also; that or they will remain neutral. They clearly will not support Jon – if I recall, Lady Yara was quite clear about how he deserved to be 'brought to justice'.” Sansa felt a surge of anger inside her; Yara's devotion to the dragon queen was sad and hollow.

“Even if Tyrion agrees to support Jon, we cannot count on the lords of the Westerlands.” Bran added. “Given the bad blood between our Houses.”

“I would not count on the Lannisters for anything, my lord.” Quentyn offered with a shrug, “they are about as reliable as men are honest.”

Grasping Jon's hand tightly Sansa gazed at him. He smiled at her with a glossed over expression; the drink clearly taking its full effects upon him now. As further discussions continued – in regards to support from the Westerlands – she could not help but think of the future.

Jon as King means a future of peace for Westeros, she was certain. Yet it also meant that they would be apart – and the lords of the realm would be throwing their daughters and sisters upon him in hope of him making one of them his queen.

But when has fate ever been kind to her?

“...done all we can in that regard.” Arya said, “Gendry was ready to vote for Jon – but if he did that it would make him appear weak.”

Jon stood up and walked to the window, the night air cool on his face. “I do not want this.”

“Jon -”

Turning around, he looked to the rest of the group. “...and I have made it clear that I do not. I want to go home – I want all of us to go home, to our families and friends and those we love.” he looked to Sansa, “I have never sought command – not while I served on the Wall, nor when Sansa and I retook Winterfell from the Boltons.”

“Yet it has always been thrust upon me. I resent it, none the less – but I have always governed as wisely and justly as I know how.” he rested his hands on the table, “I have made decisions - terrible ones – for the sake of the realm and its people.”

Inhaling sharply he continued, hanging his head. “I have always answered the call of the realm – I swore to defend it as a man of the Night's Watch – and I will answer it now, if it is asked of me.”

* * *

As he sat back down Arya smiled at him. “You will be a good King, Jon. I know you will – and besides, you will have all of us to support you.”

“Hear, hear.” Bran agreed.

Prince Quentyn nodded. “I will do what I can to support you, to be sure.”

“Let's not start preparing oaths of fealty yet,” Sansa interrupted, rising to her feet. “We should all get some sleep – we have to make sure that the vote goes in our favour first. Then we can worry about who swears fealty to whom.”

Within moments it was only Jon and Sansa left in the room. He stood up and looked at her, smiling sheepishly. “I had hoped, Lady Stark – that you would be open to a...different form of swearing fealty.”

Sansa put on her best innocent face. “Oh? What did you have in mind?” she teased, running a hand up his chest.

As he pulled her in for a kiss, Sansa lost herself in his arms.

* * *

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so just a note, the voting system gives every lord/lady one vote. if all four votes are for the same candidate the LP's can speak for them all otherwise it's individual. 
> 
> I had a super hard time writing this chapter and I hope it is ok. 
> 
> as to why old wyk voted for jon, likely that our friend lord drumm wanted to score brownie points with the participant. ironborn are human too!

Jon's hands trembled as he walked into the Dragonpit, the morning sun casting its rays down on the assembled lords and ladies. It felt as though every eye was upon him as he took his appointed seat with the Northern delegates.

“No matter what happens, lad – I will stand behind you.” Davos had told him just before he'd departed for the gathering. The old knight had been a loyal friend since his return from the dead; even now, as he worked to distribute supplies to the starving and wounded, he was able to return and offer a word of support.

Of course, his other comrades had said similar things.

“If I were you, I'd tell those kneelers to take their crown and shove it where the sun won't go!” Tormund laughed, raising his mug. “Then again, you might be the best chance this shit-heap of a land has to make something of itself.”

The Free Folk were always blunt and honest – something he appreciated, given the double-speak and lies of all others in the realm. Tormund was here to support him, as he said he would be.

Part of him wanted to flee back towards the city, to take Ghost and run into the kingswood and head north, never to return again. Yet given his time as Lord Protector – the colossal task of securing aid, keeping the people fed and housed even as they suffered around him – it had tempered that reluctance somewhat.

The love of a good woman, too – that had gone even further.

Beside him, Sansa squeezed his hand under the table. Her presence helped to calm the knot that had formed in his stomach and calm his rapidly beating heart. He felt as though it was going to leap out of his chest even still, but her touch helped him focus away from its rhythm.

_She believes in me, he told himself._ How could he let her down? _I swore an oath to defend and protect the realm – and if this is what must be done, so be it._ The mantle that he would soon be faced with loomed overhead like a shadow.

There was nothing inside of him that wanted this – he still wrestled with himself even up until the moment he'd left the Red Keep – but those who made the best leaders were often those that did not wish to take the responsibility.

Yet he had – twice. Even if he felt as though he'd failed miserably in his efforts – he knew what it was to make hard choices, to lead men into battle, and to consider and command those around him. Flexing his free hand on the table, Jon nodded to himself.

He would stand as King should they vote in his favour. He would rule as wisely and as well as he could – delivering justice to a shattered realm plagued by war and strife. The dragon roared in triumph inside of his soul, but he beat it down with the howls of his wolf. He took no pleasure, no pride in anything he may have to do.

But the hard and difficult choices had to be made. He'd stuck a dagger into Daenerys's heart, causing many – even some gathered at this Council – to condemn him as a kinslayer and oathbreaker. He had spoken of the threat of the Others candidly and openly, even when many refused to believe; and when winter came as he knew it would, it had been his efforts to rally the North to stand as one.

Even if it had meant giving up his crown – something that he knew would be unpopular.

There was no entitlement or expectation, here – even as the dragon roared about his legacy. There would be no legacy but the one that he made. A son of the North and a scion of House Stark. _That is my legacy._

* * *

“It is time for the considerations to begin.” announced Archmaester Ebrose. The Citadel had sent him and three others to record the meeting minutes with extensive notes of quill and parchment – and Jon was surprised as ever to see Sam among the trio.

Sam smiled at him from his seat, a gesture Jon returned. Part of him still held resentment towards his friend for giving him the truth – the awful truth – about his family, but he knew that that was foolish of him. He was grateful for the knowledge – the closure – that it brought.

No matter what happens, Jon would be the son of Eddard Stark – a son of the North. Even with the blood of Old Valyria flowing in his veins, it was the wolf's blood that burned in him, in his heart and in his soul.

It was the love of a wolf that gave him the courage to carry on.

“I speak for Lord Robin of House Arryn, Warden of the East.” said Lord Royce, rising to his feet. “The Vale officially selects Gendry of the House Baratheon for consideration.”

Ebrose nodded, his scribes writing feverishly. “The selection has been made. Are there any others who wish to be put forth?”

Nodding to her, Jon watched as Sansa rose to her feet.

“I, Sansa of the House Stark, speak for the North. We officially select Jon Snow – also known as Aegon of the House Targaryen – for consideration.” she announced loudly.

_The die is cast,_ he mused.

“Are there any others who wish to be put forth?” Ebrose asked again after a moment of silence.

No one else spoke.

“Very well. Two names have been selected for consideration – Aegon of the House Targaryen and Gendry of the House Baratheon. As per the ancient laws of the Grand Council, the assembled lords of the realm shall now cast their vote for one of the two candidates.” he continued, gesturing to those around him. “We shall begin from the North and work downward.”

Remaining on her feet, Sansa looked behind her to where Lords Reed, Manderly and Glover sat. All three men nodded to her.

“The North casts its votes for Aegon of the House Targaryen.” she said, returning to her seat.

More scribbling followed. “Next, the Riverlands.”

* * *

Two tables over, Edmure Tully rose next. “Riverun casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon.” he said, returning to his seat quickly.

Lord Tytos Blackwood rose next. “Raventree Hall casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.”

Jonos Bracken. “Stone Hedge casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon.”

Olivar Frey. “The Twins casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.”

Ebrose nodded. “Next, the Vale of Arryn."

* * *

Lord Arryn himself rose, smoothing out his doublet as he took his place at the table's head. “The Vale casts its votes for Gendry of the House Baratheon.”

“Next, the Westerlands.”

* * *

Jon looked over to Tyrion as he waddled to the head of his table. “Casterly Rock casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.” he said softly.

Damon Marbrand. “Ashemark casts its vote for Aegon of the Hosue Targaryen.”

Roland Crakehall. “Crakehall casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.”

Quenten Banefort. “Banefort casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon.”

Coughing slightly over the scribbling, Ebrose looked to his scribes a moment before returning his gaze to the council. “Next, The Reach.”

* * *

“The Reach casts its votes for Aegon of the House Taragryen.” announced Paxter Redwyne.

Sansa looked to Jon and smiled, her grasp on his hand tightening. His heart continued to beat so loud he heard it in his ears.

“Next, Dorne.”

* * *

Prince Quentyn ambled up. “Sunspear casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.”

Harman Uller. “Hellholt casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.”

Anders Yronwood. “Yronwood casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon.”

Trebor Jordayne. “The Tor casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon.”

“Next, The Stormlands.”

* * *

Gendry wiped some sweat from his brow. “Storm's End casts its vote for me...uh, Gendry of the House Baratheon."

Jacerys Velaryon. "Driftmark casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen."

Ardrian Celtigar. "Claw Isle casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen."

Selwyn Tarth. "Tarth casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon."

Ebrose gestured to the table beside him on the right. "Next, the Crownlands."

* * *

The young Justin Massey, Lord of Stonedance looked to both Jon and Gendry. “Stonedance casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon.”

Giles Rosby. “Rosby casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.” he said in between coughs.

The steward for Lady Lollys Stokeworth. “Stokeworth casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.”

Duram Bar Emmon. “Sharp Point casts its vote for Gendry of the House Baratheon.”

“Finally, the Iron Islands.”

Yara Greyjoy did not even bother to get up. “Pyke, Ten Towers and Hammerhorn refuse to vote.”

The third Ironborn lord – a greybeard Jon did not know – did rise. “Old Wyk casts its vote for Aegon of the House Targaryen.”

* * *

Ebrose stepped to the middle of the circle. “The Council has chosen. By a vote of twenty to thirteen, Aegon of the House Targaryen is the realm's choice for King. Lord Aegon – please step forward.” he gestured towards Jon.

Jon pulled himself up and walked to where the man stood, his heart thumping even more rapidly now.

“The realm has spoken. Will you accept the responsibility of rebuilding and repairing a land so torn apart by war and strife?” Ebrose looked into his eyes, his gaze intense.

Looking around at every table, Jon saw that all eyes were once again on him. This was it.

_For the good of the realm._ “I will.”

* * *

 


	41. Chapter 41

Jon sighed, staring at himself in the mirror. His tunic was fashioned in a way that blended the two colours of his bloodline – the grey of House Stark with the red of House Targaryen – and it generally seemed to fit well.

It was agreed that he would be crowned in such an outfit, a mixing of North and South so as to begin the process of healing that the realm desperately needed. Still, as he looked at his reflection staring back at him he could not help but feel the doubt worming its way back into his mind.

His hands would not stop shaking; ever since the journey to Oldtown where the coronation would happen it began to dawn upon him at the reality of his situation. He would be King of a realm in desperate need of leadership, and the responsibility would be his – but it would also mean that he would likely not return north for many years.

Even perhaps for the rest of his life. That prospect was all the more devastating, causing his stomach to cramp uncomfortably with every thought of the walls and faces of Winterfell.

The silk felt awkward on his body, the furs and thick leathers of the North were not the style accepted down here, and so he had to adapt to the changing circumstances – and climate – swiftly before the crown was placed upon his head.

He looked up at the standard hanging on the wall, the one he'd chosen for himself. The background was grey, with two lines of black running in the shape of a cross separating it into four sections. In two of the sections sat the direwolf of House Stark, while the other two held the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Jon was content to simply use the direwolf as his sigil, but Davos had convinced him that in order to placate those loyal to the old dynasty he would need to make some small changes.

_What else must I sacrifice?_

A knock at the door thankfully stirred him from his melancholy. “Come in.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa curtsied, a teasing smile upon her lips. She wore a simple grey and black dress that allowed Jon's imagination to run wild – and run wild it did, with flashes of her long legs visible as she stood back up.

Jon laughed, taking her by the hand and placing it to his mouth. He held it there for a long time as though it were some forbidden treasure.

She grasped his chest and pulled herself into him, her lips locking around his own as she pressed against him. She smelled of both lemon and vanilla, and the scent did nothing to calm his own raging lust for this woman – this goddess – who stood before him.

“How do I look?” he asked as their lips parted again.

“Like a King.” she replied, hands resting on his chest.

Jon brushed a stray hair from the front of her face. “And you look like a Queen. As you always do.” he whispered, planting a kiss on her neck as he did so.

“Flatterer.” she grinned, pushing him gently back against the wall.

He sighed – both in contentment at the moment they shared and in anxiety for what was to come later on. “Can we just stay here? Forget the crown, forget the rest of the realm – forget all of it. Just you and I together.”

Sansa gently lowered herself into a seat. “Who is to say that we can't?”

Jon stepped over to where she sat, tracing her eyes to where his new banner hung on the wall. “Do you like it? Davos suggested I have both dragon and wolf on the thing so as to appease some of the...less then enthusiastic lords who still long for Targaryen rule.”

“A perfect blend of north and south.” Sansa approved. “I know you are nervous, Jon – but the realm knows you will be a great ruler. You have the traits that a leader needs – and besides, you have those willing to serve you who can easily see their way through any of the lies and horse shit that life at court brings.”

“Such language!” he teased, and they both laughed.

“In all seriousness, Sansa – have you considered my offer?” he asked again, tone becoming serious. “I need you. Here, with me.”

She sighed, her eyes not able to meet his. “Jon, you know that if you marry me you will gain the ire of the rest of the realm. You....you need a bride who will help unite one of the regions to the crown. Besides, I do not even know if I can bear children after – after what Ramsay did to me. And you -”

Jon took her hand and squeezed it tightly. “...are my queen.” he insisted. “You always have been. I have no interest in the daughters, sisters and nieces of the other Houses. I am sure a great many are beautiful but you are the only one I wish to sit at my side.”

“You say that now, but what happens if some pretty young maiden comes along and...”

He kissed her, pushing his body up against hers before she could finish her sentence. “I do not want to hear any more about any young maidens, Sansa.” he whispered, breaking the kiss. “now, I only want to hear about what you will wear for our coronation.”

“....what would you have me wear?” she managed to gasp out.

Jon caressed her cheeks. “Whatever you desire. You are my queen – the queen, after all.”

Sansa's face was beet red, her breathing shallow and ragged. She smiled – and Jon saw tears forming in the sides of her eyes. “Alright, alright.” she said, running her trembling fingers over his lips, “you win.”

“I know.” he smirked, “I am the King. Or...I will be.”

* * *

A knock at the door interrupted them. “Yes?” Jon called out as they separated.

“It's Davos, Your Grace.” he said loudly.

Entering the room Ser Davos bowed his head and smiled to the pair. “Lady Stark – always good to see you.” he exclaimed, folding his hands behind his back. “I am sorry to interrupt you both but...they are ready for you now. The High Septon is in position and the crown is ready.”

Jon sighed, shaking his head. “This is it, then.” he mumbled.

“I'll be with you every step of the way, lad.” Davos assured him, offering his arms for a hug which Jon took. “Since I wear this badge it means you'll have to put up with me until you get sick of it.” he teased, gesturing to the Hand's badge of office on his breast.

Sansa smiled at the pair. “I should go find my seat. Ghost is with Bran and I don't think he would want to miss a big moment such as this.” She brushed her fingertips against Jon's arm as she left the room, a teasing grin upon her face.

“She will be our Queen.” Jon said to Davos as they faced the door. “I can't do this without her...without you, or my family. If not for them I would not do this at all. As bad as it makes me sound, Davos – I would be content to let the south rot while we returned home. But...I will lead as best I know.”

Davos nodded. “Remember what I told you at Castle Black when you mentioned that you had failed?”

“Go fail again.” he laughed.

“Well, let's go fail together.” Davos quipped back. With that, the pair stepped into the hall and began to make their way towards the cathedral.

* * *

 


	42. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we come to the end! I promise that i will write a part two of this story some day. but for now I need a rest lol 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed this at least. <3

“Your Grace.” Arya took a knee, smiling proudly up at him.

Jon chuckled, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You bow to no one, Arya. Least of all me.” he assured her as she rose. He certainly looked the part – the crown he had chosen sat upon his head, the simplistic copper and ruby mix contrasting the north and south as Jon himself did.

_Sorry, King Aegon_. Arya had to remember – he was Aegon of the House Targaryen, Sixth of His Name – at least, in regards to official business such as this; her departure from Westeros itself. She had finally been able to set up a ship and crew for her voyage west; thanks in no small part to Jon's efforts.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked her softly, sounding more like the brother she grew up with then a monarch.

“She will do great things – I'm sure of it.” said Bran, who sat at Jon's side with Meera. “I...I wish I could see what things are like where she is going, but I can't.”

Sansa stepped forward and hugged her tightly, her hands a vice grip upon her back. “I'm going to miss you.” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “I know no one has come back from a voyage west, but – you beat the odds.”

“I plan to.” Arya smirked. She felt both a sense of excitement and dread at the sight of her waiting ship. What was west of Westeros? It was her goal, her desire to be the first explorer to find out what and return to tell the tale.

She had said goodbye to Gendry – who while upset at her departure understood her wanderlust – and promised that he would be the first one he'd visit in Storm's End. She smiled, the thought of the stupid stubborn bull a welcome one in her head.

“More sure then I have been in a long time.” she assured Jon. He knelt before her and hugged her as tight as Sansa did, placing a kiss upon her forehead as he rose to his feet.

The sounds of the Oldtown harbour were drowned out in that moment; she was departing her family and all she knew for an unknown journey that she didn't know she would return from. But that was what risk was – all great journeys and adventures have them.

“You'll have your Needle, I trust.” he said, wiping at his eyes.

Even now, the events of the last week were still a blur. Jon was King, and Sansa would soon be his Queen – the coronation to take place at Dragonstone upon their departure. She knew that Jon had loathed the idea of crowning her there, but with the loss of King's Landing it was about the only place that made sense.

“Ser Brienne?” she called out, turning to where the Lady-Commander of the Kingsguard stood, resplendent in her grey Targaryen armour. She smiled proudly towards Arya. “Take care of both of them, will you?”

Brienne looked to her King and Queen. “With my life, of course.” she replied.

“I promise, I will return.” Arya said, turning to her family. Her pack – the pack – that had survived the events of the last few years. The wars, betrayals, murders, chaos and conflicts all. They had weathered so many storms, fought against so many wrongs and perils. They all deserved to rest.

“I will hold you to that, _little sister._ ” Jon's eyes were red.

Arya hugged him again. “You'll always be my brother. You know that.” she whispered. Her love for Jon was as great as it ever was – nothing would change the memories of their youth, where she realized and knew that he was her big brother and would always be her protector, her friend and her partner in crime.

She was no good at goodbyes. So, she began her journey towards the waiting rowboat.

* * *

Jon looked to Sansa, who squeezed his hand tightly. “She will return, I know it.” he said, trying to assure not just her, but himself. “If anyone can conquer what is west of Westeros, it will be Arya.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Meera smiled from Bran's side.

Watching as she climbed aboard the rowboat, Jon fought back the urge to cry again. He wanted so badly to keep her here, to ensure that their pack was together – but what kind of life would that be for someone who did not want to live such a restricted, cloistered existence? Arya was a free spirit like his mother Lyanna.

Or so he was told.

“We should get back to the Hightower. I know Davos wanted to talk to us about sightings of Euron Greyjoy out of Volantis.” he said, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the dock.

Sansa kissed his cheek, her smile understanding the pain he felt. “Work will be a good way to keep your mind focused. Once she...she sets sail it will get easier. I know it.” she said sadly.

“Will it? I pray that it does not. We are a pack, Sansa – and yet I feel like after spending so long apart, we reunite only to be forced away once again. It hardly seems fair.”

Sansa nodded. “Sometimes the pack must separate in order to achieve what it needs to. But the bond – the blood, the ties – those are always there. Nothing can break that, no matter where each wolf goes. No matter their journey even if they go to the highest mountain or the deepest sea.”

Jon found Bran taking his free hand. Arya would always be here with him – no matter what unknown lands she was exploring.

And so as they walked back along the docks, Jon felt his pack was still as strong and free as it was – and that they would come together once more one day. But until that day came, he had to be strong for both his realm – something he dreaded even to think of – and his family.

_Our family._

* * *

 


End file.
